THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  WORKS 

OF 


IVAN  TURGENIEFF 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  BY 

ISABEL   F.    HAPGOOD 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 


SCRIBNER'^ 


THE  JEFFERSON   PRESS 
BOSTON  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
Charles  Sceibneb's  Sons 


Pr-. 


n 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I  Khor  and  Kali'nitch 3 

II   Ermolai  and  the  Miller's  Wife 26 

III  The  Raspberry  Water 47 

IV  The   District   Doctor Q5 

V  My  Neighbour  Radiloff 83 

VI  Freeholder  Ovsyanikoff 98 

VII  Lgoff 132 

VIII  Byezhin  Meadow 151 

IX  Kasyan  from  the  Fair-Metcha 188 

X  The    Agent 221 

XI  The  Counting-House 246 

XII  The  Wolf 277 

XIII  Two  Landed  Proprietors  .     .     .     ,     .     .     »     .  292 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

(1852) 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 


KHOR  AND  KALINITCH 

ANY  one  who  has  had  occasion  to  pass  from 
XjL  the  Bolkhoff  district  to  the  Zhizdrin  dis- 
trict, has,  in  all  probability,  been  struck  by  the 
sharp  difference  between  the  races  of  people  in 
the  Governments  of  Orel  ^  and  Kaluga.  The 
Orel  peasant  is  small  of  stature,  round-shoul- 
dered, surly,  gazes  askance  from  beneath  his 
brows,  lives  in  miserable  huts  of  ash  lumber,  dis- 
charges husbandry-service  for  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  does  not  occupy  himself  with  trading, 
eats  bad  food,  and  wears  plaited  slippers  of  lin- 
den bark ;  the  Kaluga  peasant,  who  pays  the  lord 
of  the  manor  a  quit-rent  in  lieu  of  personal  hus- 
bandry-service, is  tall  of  stature,  his  gaze  is  bold 
and  merry,  he  is  clean  and  white  of  face,  he  deals 
in  butter  and  tar,  and  wears  boots  on  festival 
days.  An  Orel  village  (we  are  speaking  of  the 
eastern  part  of  the  Orel  Government)  is  gener- 
ally situated  in  the  midst  of  tilled  fields,  near  a  ra- 
vine somehow  converted  into  a  filthy  pond.  With 

'■  Pronounced:  Arjol. — Translator. 

3 


ME.AIOIKS    OF   A   SrOHTSMAN 

the  exception  of  a  few  willow-trees,  which  are 
always  ready  for  service,  and  two  or  three  puny 
l)irches,  vou  will  not  see  a  tree  for  a  verst  round 
ahout;  cottage  clings  close  to  cottage,  tiie  roofs 

are  covered  with  rotten  straw A  Kaluga 

village,  on  the  contrary,  is  generally  surrounded 
by  a  forest;  the  cottages  stand  further  apart 
and  more  upright,  and  are  covered  with  boards; 
the  gates  are  fast  locked,  and  the  wattled  fence 
round  the  back  yard  is  not  broken  down,  nor 
does    it    bulge    outward,    inviting    a    visit    from 

every    passing    pig And    things    are 

better  for  the  huntsman,  also,  in  the  Kaluga  Gov- 
ernment. In  the  Orel  Government,  the  forests 
and  squares  '  will  disappear  within  the  next  five 
years,  and  there  is  not  a  sign  of  a  marsh;  in  the 
Kaluga  Government,  on  the  contrary,  the  clear- 
ings covered  with  a  growth  of  bushes  extend  for 
hundreds,  the  marshes  for  scores,  of  versts,"  and 
that  noble  game-bird  the  black-cock  has  not 
been  exterminated,  the  amiable  snipe  abounds, 
and  that  busybody  the  partridge  gladdens  and 
startles  both  gunner  and  dog  with  its  abrupt 
flight. 

While   visiting   the   Zhizdrin    district,    in   the 
capacity  of  a  s])ortsman,  I  met  in  the  fields,  and 

'  "  Squares,"  in  tlie  Government  of  Orel,  is  the  desifrnation  for 
vast,  flat  masses  of  bushes;  the  dialect  of  Orel  is  distinguished, 
as  a  whole,  hv  a  nndtitude  of  peculiar,  sometimes  very  well-aimed, 
sometimes  decidedly  uncouth,  words  and  turns  of  speech. — Authok. 

'A  verst  is  two-tiiirds  of  a  mile. — Translator. 


KlIOR   AND    KALIMTCII 

struck  up  an  acquaintance  with,  a  petty  landed 
proprietor  of  Kaluga,  Polutykiu,  who  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  hunting  and  was,  consequently, 
a  splendid  fellow.     He  had  a  few  weaknesses,  it 
is  true:  for  example,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  offer- 
ing himself  in  marriage  to  all  the  wealthy  mar- 
riageable girls  in  the  Government,  and  when  his 
hand  and   house   were   declined,   with   shattered 
heart   he   confided   his   grief   to   all   his   friends 
and  acquaintances,  but  continued  to  send  sour 
peaches  and  other  unripe  products  of  his  garden 
to  the  parents  of  the  marriageable  girls;  he  was 
fond   of  repeating  the   selfsame   anecdote  over 
and  over  again,  which,  notwithstanding  ]\Ir.  Po- 
lutykin's  reverence  for  its  qualities,   absolutely 
never  made  a  single  person  laugh;  he  was  in  the 
habit    of   lauding   the    writings    of    Akim    Na- 
khimofF  and  the  novel  "Pinna";  he  stuttered; 
he  called  his  dog  Astronomer;  he  said  odndtche 
instead  of  odndko   (but),  and  had  set  up  in  his 
house  a  French  system  of  cookery,   the   secret 
whereof,  according  to  his  cook's  understanding 
of  the  matter,  consisted  in  completely  altering 
the  taste  of  every  viand:  meat,  from  the  hands 
of  this  skilful  artist,  smacked  of  fish,  fish  tasted 
like  mushrooms,  macaroni  like  gunpowder;  on 
the  other  hand,  not  a  single  carrot  ever  got  into 
the  soup,  without  having  assumed  the  shape  of 
a  lozenge  or  a  trapezium.     But,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  these  few  and  insignificant  failings,  INIr. 

5 


MEMOIUS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

Poliitykiii  was,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  splendid 
I'ellow. 

On  the  first  day  of  my  acqnaintance  with  ]Mr. 
Polutykin,  he  invited  me  to  spend  the  night  with 
him. 

"  It  is  ahont  five  versis  to  my  honse," — he 
added: — "  "t  is  a  long  way  to  trudge  afoot;  let 
us  drop  in  first  at  Khor's."  (The  reader  will  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  do  not  reproduce  his  stuttering.) 

"  And  who  is  Khor?  " 

"  Why,   a   peasant  of  mine lie  lives 

not  far  from  here." 

We  wended  our  Avay  thither.  In  the  middle 
of  the  forest,  in  a  cleared  and  cultivated  glade, 
Khor's  isolated  farmstead  was  erected.  It  con- 
sisted of  several  edifices  of  pine  logs,  connected 
by  fences;  in  front  of  the  principal  cottage 
stretched  a  penthouse,  supported  by  slender 
posts.  We  entered.  We  were  greeted  by  a  young 
lad,  tw^enty  years  of  age,  tall  and  handsome. 

"All,  Fedya!  Is  Khor  at  home?  "— ]\Ir.  Polu- 
tykin asked  him. 

"  No.  Khor  has  gone  to  town," — replied  the 
young  fellow,  displaying  a  row  of  snow-white 
teeth.  "Is  it  j^our  order  that  I  harness  up  the 
little  cart?  " 

"  Yes,  brother.    And  fetch  us  some  kvas."  ^ 

'  A  sort  of  stnall  hecr,  made  by  j)()uring  water  on  the  crusts 
of  the  sour,  hhick,  rye  bread  (or  on  rye  meal)  and  fermenting  it. 
I  leave  the  friendly,  simj)le  "  brotlier  "  in  literal  translation,  here 


KIIOR   AND   KALTNTTCH 

We  entered  the  cottage.  Not  a  single  Suzdal ' 
picture  was  pasted  upon  the  neat  timber  walls; 
in  the  corner,  in  front  of  a  heavy,  holy  picture 
in  a  silver  setting,  burned  a  shrine-lanip;  the 
linden-wood  table  had  been  recently  planed  off 
and  washed;  no  lively  cockroaches"  were  roaming 
between  the  planks  and  over  the  frames  of  the 
windows,  neither  were  any  meditative  black  bee- 
tles concealed  there.  The  young  man  speedily 
made  his  appearance  with  a  large  white  jug 
filled  with  good  kvas,  a  huge  hunk  of  wheaten 
bread,  and  a  dozen  salted  cucumbers  in  a  wooden 
bowl.  He  placed  all  these  eatables  on  the  table, 
leaned  against  the  door,  and  began  to  gaze  at  us 
with  a  smile.  Before  we  had  had  time  to  finish 
our  refreshments,  the  cart  rumbled  up  in  front 
of  the  porch.  We  went  out.  A  boy  of  fif- 
teen, curly-haired  and  rosy-cheeked,  was  sitting 
in  the  driver's  place,  and  with  difficulty  holding 
in  a  well-fed  piebald  stallion.  Round  about  the 
cart  stood  six  young  giants,  all  of  whom  bore  a 
strong  resemblance  both  to  each  other  and  to 
Fedya.  "  All  young  Polecats!  "  ^  remarked  Po- 
lutykin.  "  All  young  Polecats," — chimed  in 
Fedya,  who  had  followed  us  out  to  the  porch: 

as  elsewhere,  instead  of  using  "  my  dear  fellow,"  "  my  boy,"  "  my 
lad,"  or  tlie  like. — Translator. 

*  A  kind  of  cheap  lithograj)li  made  in  tlie  town  named. — Thans- 

LATOR. 

'■'  "  Prussians,"  literally. — Translator. 

'Khor',  a  polecat;   Khor'ki,  young    polecats,  or   Khor's    sons. — 
Translator. 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAX 

"  and  this  is  nut  all,  cither:  Potiip  is  in  the  forest, 
and  Sidor  has  gone  to  town  with  old  Klior.  .  .  . 
See  here,  Vasya,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the 
driver: — "  go  like  the  wind:  thou  art  driving  the 
master.  Only,  look  out,  and  slow  down  at  the 
jolting-places:  otherwise  thou  wilt  spoil  the  cart 
and  disturb  the  master's  belly!"  The  remain- 
ing young  Kliors  grinned  at  Fedya's  sallies. — 
"Help  Astronomer  in!"  exclaimed  ]Mr.  Polu- 
tvkin,  solemnlv.  Fedva,  not  witliout  satisfaction, 
lifted  the  dog,  which  was  smiling  in  a  forced  way, 
into  the  air,  and  deposited  him  on  the  bottom  of 
the  cart.  Vasya  gave  the  horse  his  head.  We 
drove  off.  "  That 's  my  counting-house  yonder," 
said  j\Ir.  Polutykin  suddenly  to  me,  pointing  at  a 
small,  low  house: — "  would  you  like  to  go  in?  " — 
"  With  pleasiu'e." — "  It  is  abolished  now,"  he  re- 
marked, as  he  alighted: — "  but  it 's  worth  inspec- 
tion, all  the  same." — The  office  consisted  of  two 
empty  rooms.  The  watchman,  a  crooked  old 
man,  ran  in  from  the  back  vard. — "  Good  day, 
Minyaitch,"  said  ]Mr.  Polutykin:  "  But  where  's 
the  water?  " — The  crooked  old  man  vanished, 
and  immediately  returned  with  a  bottle  of  water 
and  two  glasses.  "  Try  it,"  said  Polutykin  to  me: 
"  It 's  good  spring  water."  We  drank  a  glass 
apiece,  whereupon  the  old  man  made  us  a  rever- 
ence to  the  girdle. — "  Well,  now,  I  think  we  can 
drive  on,"  remarked  mv  new  friend.  "  In  this 
office  I  sold  to  merchant  Alleluieff'  four  desya- 

8 


KIIOR   AND    KALINITCH 

tin  as  ^  of  forest,  at  a  good  price." — We  seated 
ourselves  in  the  cart,  and  half  an  hour  later  we 
drove  into  the  yard  of  the  manor-house. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"  I  asked  Polutykin  at  sup- 
per:— "why  does  your  Khor  live  apart  from 
your  other  peasants?  " 

"  This  is  why:  he  's  a  clever  peasant.  Five  and 
twenty  years  ago,  his  cottage  hurned  down;  so 
then  he  came  to  my  late  father,  and  said :  '  Per- 
mit me,  Nikolai  Kuzmitch,  to  settle  in  your  for- 
est, on  the  marsh.  I  '11  pay  you  a  good  quit- 
rent  there.' — '  But  why  dost  thou  wish  to  settle 
on  the  marsh? ' — '  Well,  because  I  do:  only,  dear 
little  father,  Nikolai  Kuzmitch,  be  so  good  as 
not  to  use  me  for  work  any  more,  but  impose 
whatever  quit-rent  you  see  fit.' — '  Fifty  rubles 
a  year! ' — '  All  right.' — '  And  look  out,  I  won't 
tolerate  any  arrears ! ' — '  Of  course,  there  shall 

be  no  arrears.' And  so  he  settled  on  the 

marsh.  Since  that  time,  the  people  have  nick- 
named him  The  Polecat  (Khor)," 

"  Well,  and  has  he  grown  rich?  " 

"  Yes.  Now  he  pays  me  a  hundred  rubles 
quit-rent,  and  I  'm  thinking  of  raising  it  again, 
^lore  than  once  I  have  said  to  him :  '  Buy  thy 
freedom!  Khor,  take  my  advice,  buy  thy  free- 
dom !'....  But  he,  the  beast,  assures  me  that 
he  can't  afford  to ;  he  has  n't  any  money,  he  says. 
.  .  .  But,  of  course,  he  has!  " 

'  A  desyatina  is  2.70  acres. — Translatoh. 

9 


MEMOIRS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

On  the  following  day,  we  went  oft'  hunting 
again  as  soon  as  we  had  drunk  tea.  As  we  were 
passing  through  the  village,  ]Mr.  Polutykin  or- 
dered the  coachman  to  lialt  at  a  low-roofed  cot- 
tage, and  shouted  loudly:  "  Kalinitch! '' — "Im- 
mediately, master,  I  "11  he  there  immediately," — 
rano-  out  a  voice  from  the  yard: — "  I  'm  tving  on 
my  linden-hark  slippers." — AVe  drove  at  a  foot- 
pace; outside  of  the  village  we  were  overtaken 
by  a  man  of  forty,  tall  of  stature,  gaunt,  with  a 
small  head  which  was  bent  backward.  This  was 
Kalinitch.  His  good-natured,  swarthy  face, 
pitted  here  and  there  with  pock-marks,  pleased 
me  at  the  first  glance.  Kalinitch  (as  I  afterward 
learned)  went  hunting  with  his  master  every 
day,  carried  his  game-bag,  sometimes  his  gun 
also,  spied  out  where  the  bird  alighted,  fetched 
water,  picked  strawberries,  erected  huts  of  shel- 
ter, ran  behind  the  drozhky;  ^Nlr.  Polutykin  could 
not  take  a  step  without  him.  Kalinitch  was  a 
man  of  the  merriest,  gentlest  possible  nature, 
was  incessantly  humming  to  himself,  casting 
care-free  glances  in  all  directions,  spoke  some- 
what through  his  nose,  smilingly  screwed  up  his 
bright-blue  eyes,  and  frequently  clasped  his 
thin,  w^edge-shaped  beard  in  his  hand.  He 
walked  in  a  leisurely  way,  but  with  huge  strides, 
leaning  lightly  on  a  long,  slender  staff".  In  the 
whole  course  of  the  day,  he  never  addressed  me 
once,   served    me   witliout    servility,    but    looked 

10 


KIIOR  AND   KALiNITCH 

after  his  master  as  he  would  after  a  child.  When 
the  intolerable  sultriness  of  midday  made  us  seek 
a  shelter,  he  led  us  to  his  bee-farm,  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest.  Kalfnitch  threw  open  to  us  the 
tiny  cottage,  (li-a])ed  with  trusses  of  dry,  sweet- 
smelling  grass,  made  us  a  bed  on  the  fresh  hay, 
and  j^utting  on  his  head  a  sort  of  sack  with  a  net, 
took  a  knife,  a  pot,  and  a  fire-brand,  and  betook 
himself  to  his  l)ee]ii\'es,  to  cut  out  some  honey 
for  us.  We  drank  the  warm,  transparent  honey 
like  spring-water,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  monoto- 
nous humming  of  the  bees  and  the  chattering 
rustle    of   the    leaves.      A    light    gust    of   wind 

awakened  me I  opened  my  eyes,  and 

saw  Kalfnitch :  he  was  sitting  on  the  threshold  of 
the  half -open  door,  and  carving  a  spoon  with  his 
knife.  For  a  long  time  I  admired  his  face,  gen- 
tle and  clear  as  the  sky  at  eventide.  JNIr.  Polu- 
tykin  also  awoke.  We  did  not  rise  at  once=  It 
is  pleasant,  after  a  long  tramp  and  a  deep  sleep, 
to  lie  motionless  on  the  hay:  the  body  luxuriates 
and  languishes,  the  face  is  flushed  with  a  faint 
heat,  sweet  languor  closes  the  eyelids.  At  last 
we  rose,  and  went  out  to  roam  about  until  the 
evening.  At  supper  I  began  to  talk  again  about 
Khor  and  also  about  Ivalinitch. — "  Kalfnitch  is 
a  good  peasant," — said  jNIr.  Polutykin  to  me: — 
"  a  zealous  and  obliging  peasant;  but  he  cannot 
keep  his  domestic  affairs  in  order:  I  am  always 
taking  him  away.     Every  day  he  goes  hiniting 

11 


MEMOIRS   OF   A    SrOKTSMAX 

A\  itli  me.  .  .  What  sort  of  fann-management  is 
possible  under  the  circumstanees — ^you  eaii  judge 
for  yourself." — I  agreed  with  him,  and  we  went 
to  bed. 

On  the  following  day,  JNlr.  Polutykin  was 
obliged  to  go  to  town  on  business  connected 
with  his  neighbour  Pitchukoff.  His  neighbour 
Pitchukoft'  tilled  some  of  his  land,  and  on  the 
land  thus  tilled  had  whipped  one  of  his  peasant 
women.  I  went  hunting  alone,  and  toward  even- 
ing dropped  in  at  Khor's.  On  the  threshold  of 
the  cottage  an  old  man  received  me, — a  bald  old 
man,  low  of  stature,  broad-shouldered,  and  thick- 
set—the Polecat  himself.  I  gazed  with  curiosity 
at  this  Khor.  The  cut  of  his  countenance  re- 
minded me  of  Socrates :  there  was  the  same  lofty, 
knobby  brow,  the  same  small  eyes,  the  same  snub 
nose.  We  entered  the  cottage  together.  The 
same  Fedya  brought  me  milk  and  black  bread. 
Khor  seated  himself  on  the  bench,  and  stroking 
his  curly  beard  with  the  utmost  composure,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  me.  He  felt  his  dig- 
nity, ap})arently,  and  moved  and  spoke  slowly, 
occasionally  smiling  beneath  his  long  moustache. 

We  chatted  together  about  the  seed-])lanting 
and  the  harvest,  about  the  life  of  the  peasants.  .  .  . 
He  seemed  to  agree  thoroughly  with  me;  only, 
afterward,  I  became  ashamed,  and  felt  that  I 
had  not  been  saying  the  right  thing.  .  .  .  Some- 
how, it  turned  out  so  strangely.     7\hor  sometimes 

12 


KlIOll   AND   KALINITCH 

expressed  himself  queerly,  out  of  wariness,  it 
iiiiist  have  been.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  sample  of  our 
conversation : 

"  See  here,  Khor,"  I  said  to  him:  "  why  dost 
not  thou  buy  thy  freedom  from  thy  master?  " 

"  And  whv  should  1  buy  niv  freedom?  As 
it  is,  1  know  my  master,  and  I  know  M^hat  quit- 
rent  1  have  to  pay.  .  .  .  we  have  a  good 
master." 

"  But  it  is  better  to  be  free,  nevertheless," — I 
remarked. 

Khor  gazed  askance  at  me. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  then,  why  dost  not  thou  buy  thyself 
free?  " 

Khor  twisted  his  head  around. 

"  Wherewith  wouldst  thou  have  me  buy  my 
freedom,  dear  little  father?  " 

"  Come  now,  enough  of  that,  old  man " 

"If  Khor  were  to  become  a  freeman,"  he  went 
on  in  an  undertone,  as  though  speaking  to  him- 
self:— "  any  one  who  lives  without  a  beard 
would  be  Khor's  superior." 

"  But  shave  oif  thy  beard." 

"  What 's  the  beard?  the  beard  is  grass:  it  can 
be  mown." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  Why,  you  know,  Khor  will  fall  straightway 
amons"  the  merchants ;  the  merchants  lead  a  com 
fortable  life,  and  they  wear  beards." 

13 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPOKTSMAN 

"  AVhat  then,  thou  art  engaged  in  trade  also, 
art  thou  not?  " — I  asked  him. 

"  We  do  a  httle  trade  in  hutter  and  tar 

Dost  thou  command  us  to  harness  up  the  hght 
cart,  dear  httle  father?  " 

"  Thou  keej^est  a  tight  rein  on  th}^  tongue,  and 
art  a  man  who  knows  his  own  mind,"  I  thought. 
"No,"  I  said  aloud: — ''I  don't  want  the  cart; 
I  shall  be  roaming  in  the  vicinity  of  thy  farm  to- 
morrow,  and,  with  thy  permission,  I  will  stoj)  and 
pass  the  night  in  thy  hay -barn." 

"  Pray  do.  But  wilt  thou  be  comfortable  in 
the  barn?  I  will  order  the  women  to  spread  a 
sheet  and  place  a  pillow  for  thee.  Hey  there, 
women!" — he  shouted,  rising  from  his  seat: — 
"hither,  women!  ....  And  do  thou  go  with 
him,  Fedya.     For  women  are  a  stupid  lot. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Fedya  escorted  me 
to  the  barn  with  a  lantern.  I  threw  myself  down 
on  the  fragrant  hay;  my  dog  curled  himself  up 
at  my  feet ;  Fedya  bade  me  good  night,  the  door 
squeaked  and  slammed.  It  was  a  good  while 
before  I  could  get  to  sleep.  A  cow  came  to  the 
door,  and  breathed  hard  a  couple  of  times;  my 
dog  growled  at  her  with  dignity ;  a  pig  passed  by, 
grunting  meditatively;  a  horse  somewhere  near 
at  hand  began  to  chew  hay  and  snort  ....  at 
last  I  fell  asleep. 

At  dawn  Fedya  waked  me.  That  merry,  dash- 
ing  young  fellow  pleased  me  greatly;  and,  so 

14 


KTTOR   AND    KiVLINITCII 

far  as  1  had  been  able  to  ()bser^x',  he  was  a  fa- 
vourite with  old  Klior  also.  The  two  bantered 
each  other  very  amiably.  The  old  man  came  out 
to  meet  me.  Whether  it  was  because  I  had 
passed  the  night  under  his  roof,  or  for  some 
other  reason,  at  all  events,  Klior  treated  mc 
much  more  graciously  than  on  the  preceding 
evening. 

"  The  samovar  is  ready  for  thee,"^ — he  said  to 
me,  with  a  smile: — "  let  us  go  and  drink  tea." 

We  seated  ourselves  around  the  table.  A  ro- 
bust peasant  woman,  one  of  his  daughters-in-law, 
brought  a  pot  of  milk.  All  his  sons  entered  the 
cottage  in  turn.  "  What  a  tall  family  thou 
hast!  " — I  remarked  to  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  biting  off  a  tiny  morsel  of 
sugar: — "  they  have,  apparently,  no  complaints 
to  make  against  me  or  against  my  old  woman." 

"  And  do  thev  all  live  with  thee?  " 

"  Yes.  They  want  to,  themselves,  so  here  they 
live." 

"  And  are  all  of  them  married?  " 

"  That  one  yonder,  the  scamp,  won't  marry," 
- — he  replied,  pointing  at  Fedya,  who,  as  before, 
was  leaning  against  the  door. — "  Vaska  is  too 
young,  he  must  wait  a  while." 

"  But  why  should  I  marry?  "  retorted  Fedya: 
"  I  'm  comfortable  as  I  am.  What  do  I  w^ant 
with  a  wife?  For  the  sake  of  snarling  at  each 
other,  pray?  " 

15 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

"  Oh,  get  out!  ...   1  know  thee!  thou  Avearest 

a  silver  ring.' Thou  wouldst  hke  to  be 

sniffing  around  the  women  among  the  house- 
serfs.  .  .  .  'Stop  that,  you  impudent  thing!'" 
went  on  tlie  old  man,  imitating  tlie  house-maids. 
"I  know  thee  thoroughly,  thou  lazy  creature!" 

"  And  what  is  there  good  about  a  woman?  " 

"  A  woman  is  a  worker," — remarked  Khor, 
impressively.     "  A  woman  is  a  man's  servant." 

"  But  what  do  I  want  with  a  worker?  " 

"  That 's  exactly  the  point,  thou  art  f(md  of 
picking  uj)  the  hot  coals  by  making  a  catspaw 
of  other  people.  We  know  all  about  fellows  of 
your  stamp." 

"  Well,  marry  me  off,  then,  if  that 's  the  case. 
Hey?  Wliat  (fost  thou  say  to  that?  Why  art 
thou  silent?  " 

"  Come,  that  will  do,  that  will  do,  jester.  Dost 
thou  not  see  that  we  are  bothering  the  gentleman. 
I  '11  marry  thee  off,  never  fear.  .  .  And  be  not 
angry,  dear  little  father:  the  child  is  little  as  yet, 
seest  thou,   and   has  n't   succeeded   in   acquiring 


sense." 


Fedya  shook  his  head 

"  Is  Khor  at  home?  " — resounded  a  familiar 
voice  outside  the  door, — and  Kah'nitch  entered 
the  cottage  with  a  bunch  of  wild  strawberries  in 
his  hand,  which  he  had  plucked  for  his  friend 

*  That  is,  he  was  getting  foppish  and  so  showing 
an   interest — 'rnAxsi.AToit. 

10 


KIIOR    AXD   KAT.INTTCH 

Khor.  The  old  man  gave  liiin  a  cordial  greetings 
I  stared  in  amazement  at  Kalinitcli :  I  mnst  con- 
fess, that  I  had  not  expected  such  "  sentimen- 
tality "  from  a  peasant. 

On  that  (lav,  1  set  out  on  mv  hunt  four  hours 
later  than  usual,  and  spent  the  three  following 
days  with  Khor.  IMy  new  acquaintances  inter- 
ested me.  I  do  not  know  how  I  won  their  con- 
fidence, hut  they  talked  unresei-vedly  with  me. 
I  listened  to  them  and  watched  them  with  plea- 
sure. The  two  friends  did  not  resemhle  each 
other  in  the  least.  Khor  was  a  decisive,  practi- 
cal man  with  an  administrative  head,  a  ration- 
alist; Kalinitch,  on  the  contrary,  belonged  to 
the  class  of  idealists,  romanticists,  exalted  and 
dreamy  people.  Khor  understood  reality,  that 
is  to  say:  he  had  established  himself  comfortably, 
he  had  amassed  a  little  money,  he  got  along  well 
with  his  master,  and  with  the  other  authorities; 
Kalinitch  wore  linden-bark  slippers,  and  worried 
along  as  best  he  might.  Khor  had  bred  a  large 
family,  obedient  and  harmonious;  Kalinitch  had 
had  a  wife,  once  upon  a  time,  of  w^hom  he  had 
been  afraid,  and  had  never  had  anv  children  at 
all.  Khor  saw  through  Mr.  Polutykin;  Kali- 
nitch worshipped  his  master.  Khor  loved  Kali- 
nitch, and  afforded  him  his  protection;  Kalinitch 
loved  and  respected  Khor.  Khor  talked  little, 
laughed  and  reasoned  to  himself;  Kalinitch  ex- 
pressed himself  with  fervour,  although  he  could 

17 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

not  oabble  as  fluently '  as  a  dashino-  factory  hand. 
.  .  .  But  Kalinitcli  was  endowed  with  preroga- 
tiyes  which  Khor  himself  recognised;  for  exam- 
ple: he  could  conjure  blood,"  fear,  madness,  and 
expel  worms ;  he  was  successful  with  bees,  he  had 
a  light  hand.  Khor,  in  my  presence,  requested 
him  to  lead  a  newly  bought  horse  into  the  stable, 
and  Kalinitch,  with  conscientious  pompousness,'' 
complied  with  the  old  sceptic's  request.  Kali- 
nitch stood  closer  to  nature;  but  Khor  to  people, 
to  society;  Kalinitch  did  not  like  to  reason,  and 
belieyed  eyerything  blindly:  Khor  rose  eyen  to 
the  ironical  point  of  yiew  on  life.  He  had  seen 
a  great  deal,  he  knew  a  great  deal,  and  I  learned 
much  from  him.  For  instance:  from  his  narra- 
tiyes  I  learned  that  eyery  summer,  before  the 
mowing,  a  small  peasant  cart  of  a  peculiar  as- 
pect makes  its  appearances  in  the  villages.  In 
this  cart  sits  a  man  jn  a  kaftan,  and  sells  scythes. 
For  cash,  he  charges  a  ruble  and  twenty-fiye 
kopeks  in  coin,  or  a  ruble  and  fifty  kopeks  in 
bank-bills;  on  credit,  he  asks  three  paper  rubles 
and  a  silver  ruble.  xVU  the  peasants  buy  on 
credit,  of  course.  Two  or  three  weeks  later,  he 
makes  his  appearance  again,  and  demands  his 
money.  The  peasants  oats  are  just  reaped,  so  he 
has  the  wherewithal  to  pay,  he  goes  with  the  mer- 
chant to  the  dram-shop,  and  there  he  discharges 

'  Russian:  "Sing  like  a  nightingale." — Translator. 

-  Stop  the  flow,  as  in  nosebleed. — Traxslator. 

^  Because  lie  had  "  the  lucky  hand." — Translator. 

18 


KIIOR  AND  KALINITCH 

his  debt.  Some  landed  proprietors  conceived 
the  idea  of  buying  the  scythes  themselves,  for 
cash,  and  distributing  them,  on  credit,  to  the 
peasants,  at  the  same  price;  but  the  peasants 
proved  to  be  dissatisfied,  and  even  fell  into  a  state 
of  dejection;  they  had  been  deprived  of  the  satis- 
faction of  tapping  the  scythe  and  listening  to  the 
ring  of  it,  of  turning  it  about  in  their  hands,  and 
asking  the  crafty  merchant  from  the  petty 
burgher  class,  twenty  times  in  succession:  "  See 
here,  young  fellow,  that  is  n't  such  a  very  good 
scythe,  is  it?" — The  same  tricks  take  place  also 
over^the  purchase  of  reaj)ing-hooks,  with  merely 
this  difference,  that  in  this  case  the  women  take  a 
hand  in  the  matter,  and  sometimes  force  the  ped- 
lar to  thrash  them,  for  their  own  benefit.  But 
the  women  are  the  greatest  sufferers  in  any  case. 
The  men  who  contract  to  supply  material  for  the 
paper-mills  entrust  the  purchase  of  rags  of  a 
special  sort  to  men  who,  in  some  districts,  are 
called  "  eagles."  An  "  eagle  "  of  this  sort  re- 
ceives from  the  merchant  a  couple  of  hundred 
rubles  in  bank-bills,  and  sets  forth  in  quest  of 
bootv.  But,  in  contrast  to  the  noble  bird  from 
whom  he  has  received  his  name,  he  does  not  swoop 
down  openly  and  boldly, — quite  the  reverse: 
the  "  eagle "  resorts  to  craft  and  wiles.  He 
leaves  his  little  cart  somewhere  or  other  in  the 
bushes  near  the  village,  and  sets  forth  along  the 
back  yards  and  back  doors,  just  as  though  he 

19 


MEiNIOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

were  some  passiii""  stran'»er,  or  simply  a  roving 
vagrant.  The  women  divine  his  approaeh  by 
instinet,  and  steal  forth  to  meet  him.  The  trad- 
ing compact  is  completed  in  haste.  For  a  few 
copi^er  farthings  the  peasant  woman  delivers  to 
the  "  eagle  "  not  only  every  useless  rag,  but  fre- 
quently her  husband's  shirt  and  her  own  gown. 
Of  late,  the  women  have  fomid  it  profitable  to 
steal  from  themselves,  and  rid  themselves  in  this 
manner  of  the  hemp,  especially  of  hemp-yarn, — 
an  important  extension  and  imi)rovement  of  the 
"  eagles'  "  industry!  On  the  otlier  hand,  the  peas- 
ant men  ha\'e  grown  alert,  and  at  the  slight- 
est suspicion,  at  tlie  mere  distant  rumour,  of 
the  appearance  of  an  "  eagle,"  they  proceed 
swiftly  and  vivaciously  to  corrective  and  pre- 
cautionary measures.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
is  it  not  an  outrage?  Selling  the  hemp  is  their 
business, — and  thev  reallv  do  sell  it — not  in 
town, — they  woidd  have  to  trudge  to  the  town, — 
but  to  travelling  dealers,  who,  for  the  lack  of 
scales,  reckon  forty  handfuls  as  a  pud,^ — and 
you  know  what  sort  of  a  fist  and  what  sort 
of  a  palm  the  Russian  man  possesses,  especially 
when  he  "  waxes  zealous  "!  Of  such  tales  I,  an 
inexperienced  man,  and  a  "  resident "  in  the 
country  (as  we  say  in  our  government  of  Orel), 
lieard  aplenty.  Rut  Khor  did  not  tell  stories  all 
the  time;  he  questioned  me  about  many  things. 

'  A  trifle  over  thirty-six  pounds,   Englisii. — Traxslator 

20 


KIIOR  AND  KALINITCH 

He  learned  that  1  had  been  abroad,  and  his  cu- 
riosity was  inflamed.  .  .  .  Kah'nitch  kept  pace 
with  him;  but  Kah'nitch  was  more  affected  by 
descriptions  of  nature,  of  mountains,  waterfalls, 
remarkable  buildings,  great  towns;  administra- 
tive and  governmental  questions  interested  Khor. 
He  inquired  into  everything  in  turn: — "  Do  they 
have  everything  yonder  just  as  we  have,  or  is  it 
different?  .  .  Come,  tell  me,  dear  little  father, 
how  is  it?  ....  "Ah!  Akh!  O  Lord,  Thy 
will  be  done!  " — Kah'nitch  would  exclaim  in  the 
course  of  my  narrative ;  Khor  maintained  silence, 
contracted  his  thick  eyebrows  in  a  frown,  and 
merely  remarked,  from  time  to  time,  "  That 
would  n't  suit  us,  but  it 's  good — it 's  right." — I 
cannot  transmit  to  you  all  his  queries,  and  there 
is  no  reason  that  I  should;  but  I  carried  away 
from  our  conversations  one  conviction,  which,  in 
all  probability,  will  be  utterly  unexpected  to  my 
readers, — the  conviction  that  Peter  the  Great 
was  pre-eminently  a  Russian  man — Russian,  to 
wit,  in  his  reforms.  The  Russian  man  is  so  con- 
vinced of  his  strength  and  vigour  that  he  is  not 
averse  to  making  a  violent  effort:  he  takes  little 
interest  in  his  past,  and  looks  boldly  ahead. 
What  is  good  pleases  him,  what  is  sensible  he 
wants  to  have  given  to  him,  and  whence  it  comes 
is  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  him.  His 
healthy  mind  is  fond  of  jeering  at  the  lean  Ger- 
man brain;  but  the  Germans,  in  Khor's  words, 

21 


me:moirs  of  a  spoutsmax 

are  an  interesting  little  race,  and  he  was  ready  to 
learn  of  them.  Thanks  to  the  exclusive  nature 
of  his  situation,  of  his  practical  independence, 
Khor  talked  to  me  about  many  things  which  you 
could  n't  pi-y  out  of  any  other  man  with  a  crow- 
bar,— as  the  peasants  say,  grind  out  with  a  mill- 
stone. He  really  understood  his  position.  In 
chatting  with  Khor,  I  heard,  for  the  first  time, 
the  simple,  clever  speech  of  the  Russian  peasant. 
His  knowledge  was  tolerably  extensive,  of  its 
kind,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  read;  Kalinitch 
did.  "  Reading  and  writing  came  easy  to  that 
blockhead,"  remarked  Khor: — "  and  his  bees 
have  never  died  when  they  swarmed." — "  But 
thou  hast  had  thy  children  taught  to  read  and 
write?  " — Khor  remained  silent  for  a  while. — 
"  Fedya  knows  how." — "  And  the  others?  " — 
"The  others  don't."— "  Why  not?  "—The  old 
man  made  no  reply,  and  changed  the  conversa- 
tion. ^Moreover,  sensible  as  he  was,  he  had  a 
great  many  prejudices  and  bigoted  ideas.  For 
example,  he  despised  women  from  the  bottom  of 
his  soul,  and  when  he  was  in  merry  mood  he 
jeered  at  and  ridiculed  them.  His  wife,  aged 
and  waspish,  never  descended  from  the  oven  all 
day  long,  and  grumbled  and  scolded  incessantly; 
her  sons  paid  no  attention  to  her,  but  she  kept  her 
daughters-in-law  in  the  fear  of  God, — under 
her  thumb.  Not  without  reason  does  the  hus- 
band's mother  sing  in  Russian  ballads:  "What 

99 


KIIOU  AND  KALINITCH 

sort  of  a  son  art  thou  to  nie,  what  sort  of  a  family 
man!  thou  beatest  not  thy  wife,  thou  beatest  not 

the  young  woman "     1  once  took  it  into 

my  head  to  stand  up  for  the  daughters-in-law, 
I  tried  to  arouse  Klior's  compassion;  but  he 
calmly  replied  to  me,  "  ^Vhy  do  you  bother  your- 
self with   such trifles, — let   the   women 

wrangle;  ....  if  they  are  interfered  with 
't  will  be  all  the  worse,  and  it  is  n't  worth  while 
to  soil  one's  hands.  "  Sometimes  the  ill-tempered 
old  woman  crawled  down  from  the  oven,  called 
the  watch-dog  in  from  the  anteroom,  saying: 
"  Come  here,  come  here,  doggy!  "  and  beat  it  on 
its  gaunt  back  with  the  oven-fork,  or  took  up 
her  stand  under  the  penthouse  and  "  yowled," 
as  Khor  expressed  it,  at  all  the  passers-by.  But 
she  feared  her  husband,  and,  at  his  command,  she 
took  herself  off  to  her  place  on  the  oven.  But 
the  most  curious  thing  of  all  was  to  listen  to  a 
dispute  between  Khor  and  Kalinitch,  when  JNIr. 
Polutykin  was  in  question. — "  Don't  touch  him, 
Khor,"^ — said  Kalinitch. — "  But  why  does  n't  he 
have  some  boots  made  for  thee?  "  retorted  the 
other. — "  Eka,  boots!  ....  what  do  I  want  of 
boots?  I  'm  a  serf."  .  .  .  .  "  Well,  and  here  am 
I  a  serf  too,  but  see  here — "  ....  At  this  word, 
Khor  elevated  his  leg,  and  showed  Kalinitch  his 
boot,  carved,  probably,  out  of  mammoth  hide. — 
"  Ekh,  but  art  thou  one  of  us?  "  rejDlied  Kali- 
nitch.— "  Well,  he  might,  at  least,  give  thee  some 

23 


:ME:\rOIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

bark  slippers:  for  thou  goest  a-hunting  witli  liini; 
tliou  must  wear  out  a  pair  a  day,  I  should  think." 
— "  He  does  give  me  money  for  slippers." — 
"  Yes,  and  last  year  he  presented  thee  with  a  ten- 
kopek  piece." — Kalinitcli  turned  away  in  vexa- 
tion, but  Khor  burst  out  laughing,  whereat  his 
little  eyes  completely  disappeared. 

Kalinitch  sang  quite  agreeably,  and  played  on 
the  hdhildika.^  Klior  would  listen  and  listen  to 
him,  then  suddenly  loll  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
begin  to  chime  in,  in  a  mournful  voice.  He  was 
especially  fond  of  the  song:  "  Oh,  thou  my  Fate, 
my  Fate!  "  Fedya  omitted  no  opportunity  to 
banter  his  father.  "  ^Vhat  has  moved  thee  to 
pity,  old  man?  "  But  Khor  propped  his  cheek  on 
his  hand,  shut  his  eyes,  and  continued  to  bewail 

his   fate On   the  other  hand,   there   was 

no  more  active  man  than  he  at  any  other  time; 
he  was  eternally  busy  about  something  or  other 
— mending  a  cart,  propping  up  the  fence,  look- 
ing over  the  harness.  He  did  not,  however,  af- 
fect any  special  degree  of  cleanliness,  and  in  re- 
\A\  to  my  comments  he  once  said  that  "  the 
cottage  must  smell  as  though  it  were  inhabited." 

"But  just  see," — I  retorted: — "how  clean 
ever\i:hing  is  at  Kalinitch's  bee-farm." 

"  The  bees  would  n't  live  otherwise,"^ — he  said 
with  a  sigh. 

"  And  hast  thou  a  hereditary  estate  of  thine 

'  A   triangular,   three-stringed   guitar. — Translator. 

24 


KHOR  AND  KAI.INITCH 

own?" — he  asked  me  on  another  occasion. — 
"Yes." — "Is  it  far  from  liere?" — "About  a 
hundred  versts." — "  And  dost  thou  hve  on  thy 
estate,  dear  httle  father?  " — "  Ves,  1  do." — "And 
thou  amusest  thyself  chiefly  with  thy  gun,  I  sup- 
pose? " — "  I  must  confess  that  I  do." — "And  a 
good  thing  it  is,  too,  dear  httle  father;  shoot  as 
many  black-cock  as  thou  wilt,  and  change  thy 
steward  as  often  as  possible." 

On  the  fourth  day,  at  evening,  Mr.  Polutykin 
sent  for  me.  I  was  sorry  to  part  from  the  old 
man.  In  company  with  Kalinitch,  I  seated  my- 
self in  the  cart.     "Well,  good-bye,  Khor;  may 

health    be    thine!"    I    said "Good-bye, 

Fedya." — "  Good-bye,  dear  little  father,  good- 
bye; don't  forget  us."  We  drove  off;  the  sunset 
had  just  begun  to  blaze  out. — "  The  weather  will 
be  sj)lendid  to-morrow%"  I  said,  glancing  at  the 
clear  sky. — "  No,  there  will  be  rain," — Kalinitch 
replied: — "the  ducks  yonder  are  splashing,  and 
the  grass  smells  awfully  strong." — We  drove 
among  the  bushes.  Kalinitch  began  to  sing  in 
a  low  tone,  as  he  bounced  about  on  the  driver's 
seat,  and  kept  staring,  staring  at  the  sunset 
glow 

On  the  following  day,  I  quitted  Mr.  Polu- 
tykin's  hospitable  roof. 


25 


II 


ERMOLAI  AND  THE  MILLER  S  WIFE 

Ix  the  evening,  Ermolai  and  I  set  off  to  tlie 
"  stand-shooting."  ....  But,  possibly,  not  all 
my  readers  know  what  that  is.  Listen  then,  gen- 
tlemen. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  before  sunset,  in  sj^riiig, 
you  enter  the  woods  with  your  gun,  and  without 
your  dog.  You  search  out  for  yourself  a  spot 
somewhere  close  to  the  border  of  the  woods,  scan 
your  surroundings,  look  to  your  percussion-cap, 
exchange  winks  with  youi'  companion.  A  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  has  elapsed.  The  sun  has  set,  but 
it  is  still  light  in  the  forest;  the  air  is  pure  and 
limpid;  the  birds  are  chirping  volubl}^;  the  young 
grass  gleams  with  the  gay  shimmer  of  an  emerald 
.  .  .  you  wait.  The  interior  of  the  forest  gradu- 
ally grows  dark;  the  scarlet  light  of  the  evening 
sky  glides  slowly  along  the  roots  and  })oles  of 
the  trees,  rises  ever  higher  and  higher,  passes 
from  the  lower,  almost  bare  ])oughs,  to  the  mo- 
tionless crests  of  the  trees,  which  are  falling 
asleep.  .  .  .  And  lo,  now  tlie  crests  also  liave 
grown  dim;  the  crimson  lieaven  turns  blue.  The 
odour  of  the  forest  is  intensified,  a  warm  moisture 

2« 


THE  ^MILLER'S  WIFE 

is  lightly  wafted  abroad;  the  fleeting  breeze  dies 
away  around  you.  Tlie  birds  sink  to  sleep — not 
all  at  once — but  according  to  their  species:  now 
the  chaffinches  have  fallen  silent,  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  hedge-sparrows  will  do  the  same,  and 
after  them  the  greenfinches.  In  the  forest, 
everything  grows  darker  and  darker.  The  trees 
flow  together  in  huge,  blackish  masses;  the  first 
tiny  stars  peer  out  timidly  in  the  blue  sky.  All 
the  birds  are  asleep.  The  redtails,  the  little 
woodpeckers,  alone  are  still  chirping  sleepily. 
.  .  .  And  now  they,  also,  have  grown  silent. 
Once  more  the  resonant  voice  of  the  pewit  has 
rung  out  overhead;  an  oriole  has  uttered  a 
mournful  cry  somewhere  or  other;  the  nightin- 
gale has  trilled  for  the  first  time.  Your  heart  is 
languishing  with  anticipation,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den— but  only  sportsmen  will  understand  me — 
all  of  a  sudden,  athwart  the  profound  silence,  a 
peculiar  sort  of  croaking  and  hissing  rings  out, 
the  measured  swxep  of  rapid  wings  becomes  au- 
dible,— and  a  woodcock,  his  long  beak  hand- 
somely bent  on  one  side,  flies  swimmingly  from 
behind  a  dark  birch-tree  to  meet  your  shot. 

That  is  what  "  stand-shooting  "  means. 

So,  as  I  was  saying,  Ermolai  and  I  set  out  for 
the  stand-shooting;  but  pardon  me,  gentlemen; 
I  must  first  make  you  acquainted  with  Ermolai. 

Picture  to  yourselves  a  man  five  and  forty 
years  of  age,  tall,  gaunt,  with  a  long,  thin  nose, 

27 


IMEMOIRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAX 

a  narrow  forehead,  small  grey  eyes,  dishevelled 
hair,  and  broad,  mocking  lips.  This  man  went 
about,  winter  and  summer,  in  a  vellowisii  nankeen 
kaftan,  of  German  cut,  but  girt  with  a  belt;  he 
wore  blue,  full  trousers,  and  a  cap  with  a  lamb- 
skin border,  presented  to  him  by  a  ruined  landed 
proprietor  in  a  merry  mood.  To  his  girdle  were 
attached  two  bags,  one  in  front,  artfully  twisted 
into  two  halves,  for  powder  and  shot, — the  other 
behind,  for  game;  but  the  wads  Krmolai  pro- 
cured from  his  own,  seemingly  inexhaustible, 
cap.  He  might  easil}'  have  bought  himself  a 
cartridge-box  and  a  game-bag  out  of  the  money 
i^aid  to  him  for  the  game  he  sold,  but  he  never 
once  even  so  much  as  thought  of  such  a  purchase, 
and  continued  to  load  his  gun  as  before,  excit- 
ing the  amazement  of  spectators  by  the  art 
wherewith  he  avoided  the  danger  of  spilling  or 
mixing  the  powder  and  shot.  His  gun  was  sin- 
gle-barrelled, with  a  flint  lock,  addicted,  more- 
over, to  the  bad  habit  of  "  kicking  "  viciously, 
the  result  of  M^hich  was,  that  Krmolai's  right 
cheek  was  always  plumper  than  the  left.  How 
he  could  hit  anything  with  that  gun  was  more 
than  even  a  clever  man  could  divine;  but  hit  he 
did.  He  had  a  setter  dog,  Valetka,^  a  very  re- 
markable creature.  Ermolai  never  fed  him. 
"  As  if  I  were  going  to  feed  a  dog," — he  argued : 
— "  moreover,  a  dog  is  a  clever  animal,  it  will 

'Little  knave  or  valet;  also,  knave  at  cards. — Traxslator. 

28 


THE  ]\rrLLKirs  wife 

find  food  for  itself/'  xVnd,  in  fact,  although  Va- 
letka  astonished  even  the  indifferent  passer-by 
witli  his  emaciation,  still  he  lived,  and  lived  long; 
and  even,  in  sjiite  of  his  wretched  condition,  he 
never  once  got  lost,  nor  exhibited  a  desire  to  aban- 
don his  master.  Once  upon  a  time,  during  his 
youthful  years,  he  absented  himself  for  a  couple 
of  days,  led  astray  by  love ;  but  that  folly  speed- 
ily broke  away  from  him.  Valetka's  most  re- 
markable quality  was  his  incomprehensible  in- 
difference to  everything  on  earth If  I 

were  not  speaking  of  a  dog,  I  would  use  the 
word  disenchantment.  He  generally  sat  with 
his  bob-tail  tucked  up  under  him,  scowled,  shiv- 
ered, now  and  then,  and  never  smiled.  (Every- 
one knows  that  dogs  have  the  power  of  smiling, 
and  even  of  smiling  very  prettily.)  He  was 
extremely  ill-favoured,  and  not  a  single  idle 
house-serf  omitted  an  opportunity  to  jeer  spite- 
fully at  his  appearance;  but  Valetka  endured  all 
these  jeers  and  even  blows  with  remarkable  cool- 
ness. He  afforded  particular  satisfaction  to  the 
cooks,  who  immediately  tore  themselves  from 
their  work,  and  set  out  in  pursuit  of  him  with  hue 
and  cry,  when  he,  in  consequence  of  a  weakness 
not  confined  to  dogs  alone,  thrust  his  hungry 
snout  through  the  half -open  door  of  the  seduc- 
lively  warm  and  sweet-smelling  kitchen.  On  a 
hunt,  he  distinguished  himself  by  indefatigabil- 
ity,  and  he  had  a  very  respectable  scent;  but  if 

29 


MEMOIRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

he  accidentally  overtook  a  wounded  hare,  he 
promptly  devoured  every  bit  of  him,  to  the  very 
last  little  bone,  with  great  gusto,  somewhere  in 
the  cool  shade,  at  a  respectful  distance  from  Er- 
molai,  who  swore  in  all  known  and  unknown 
dialects. 

Ermolai  belonged  to  one  of  my  neighbours,  a 
country  squire  of  tlie  ancient  sort.  These  old- 
fashioned  landed  proprietors  do  not  like  "  snipe," 
and  stick  to  domestic  fowls.  It  is  only  on  excep- 
tional occasions — on  birth-davs,  saints'  days,  and 
election  days  ' — that  the  cooks  of  squires  of  the 
ancient  cut  undertake  to  prepare  the  long-billed 
birds,  and,  waxing  furious,  as  a  Russian  is  wont 
to  do  when  he  himself  does  not  quite  imderstand 
M'hat  he  is  about,  they  invent  for  them  such  coni- 
2)licated  sauces,  that  most  of  the  guests  survey 
with  curiosity  and  attention  the  viands  placed 
before  them,  but  cannot  possibly  bring  them- 
selves to  taste  them.  Ermolai  had  orders  to  fur- 
nish his  master's  table,  once  a  month,  w^ith  a 
couple  of  brace  of  black-cock  and  partridges, 
and,  for  the  rest,  was  permitted  to  live  where  and 
how  he  pleased.  He  was  discarded,  as  a  man 
who  was  fit  for  no  work  whatsoever, — "  a  ne'er 
do  well,"  as  we  say  in  the  Government  of  Orel. 
They  did  not  furnish  him  with  powder  and  shot, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  in  consonance  with  the  self- 
same principle  on  which  he  did  not  feed  his  dog. 

'  For  Marshal  of  tlie  Xobility.— Thaxslator. 

30 


THE  MTTJ.EK'S  WIFE 

Erniolai  was  a  man  of  a  very  singular  nature; 
care-free  as  a  bird,  decidedly  loquacious,  absent- 
minded,  and  clumsy  in  apj^earance;  he  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  drink,  never  lived  long  in  one 
place,  shuffled  his  feet  as  he  walked,  and  swayed 
from  side  to  side, — and  with  all  his  shuffling  and 
swaying  to  and  fro,  he  would  cover  a  distance  of 
fifty  versts  in  twenty-four  liours.  He  exposed 
himself  to  the  most  varied  experiences;  he  would 
pass  the  night  in  the  marshes,  in  trees,  on  roofs, 
under  bridges,  more  than  once  he  sat  locked  up 
in  garrets,  cellars,  and  barns,  lost  his  gun,  his  dog, 
his  most  indispensable  garments,  was  thrashed 
long  and  violently, — and,  notwithstanding,  after 
a  while,  he  would  return  home  clothed,  with  his 
gun  and  his  dog.  It  was  impossible  to  call  him 
a  jolly  man,  although  he  was  almost  always  in  a 
fairly  cheerful  mood;  his  general  aspect  was 
that  of  a  droll  fellow.  Ermolai  was  fond  of  chat- 
ting with  a  nice  man,  especially  over  a  glass  of 
liquor,  but  even  that  not  for  long  at  a  time;  he 
would  rise  and  walk  off. — "  But  where  the  devil 
art  thou  going?  Night  is  falling." — "  Why,  to 
Tchaplino."^ — "But  what  hast  thou  got  to  trudge 
to  Tchaplino  for — ten  versts  away?  " — "  Why, 
to  spend  the  night  there  with  peasant  Sofron." — 
"  Come,  spend  the  night  here." — "  No,  I  can't." 
— And  off  would  go  Ermolai,  with  his  Valetka, 
into  the  dark  night,  through  the  bushes  and  the 
ravines,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  the  poor  peasant 

31 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

Sofron  would  not  let  him  into  the  house,  and,  in 
all  probability,  would  puniniel  his  back  for  him 
to  boot:  "  Don't  go  bothering  honest  folks."  On 
the  other  hand,  there  was  no  one  who  could  be 
compared  with  Ermolai  in  the  art  of  catching 
fish  at  flood-water  in  spring,  of  getting  crawfish 
with  his  hands,  of  searching  out  game  by  instinct, 
of  decoying  woodcock,  of  training  hawks,  of  en- 
ticing nightingales  with  the  "  forest  pipes,"  with 
"  cuckoo  call."  ^  .  .  .  .  One  thing  he  could  not 
do :  train  dogs ;  he  had  not  the  patience.  He  had 
a  wife.  He  went  to  see  her  once  a  week.  She 
dwelt  in  a  miserable,  half-ruined  little  hut, 
scraped  along  somehow  or  other,  and  often  did 
not  know  at  night  whether  she  would  have 
enough  to  eat  on  the  morrow  or  not,  and,  in  gen- 
eral, her  lot  was  a  bitter  one.  Ermolai,  that  care- 
free, good-natured  man,  treated  her  harshly  and 
roughly,  ■  assuming  at  home  a  threatening  and 
surly  aspect, — and  his  poor  wife  did  not  know 
how  to  please  him,  trembled  at  his  glance, 
bought  him  liquor  with  her  last  farthing,  and 
servilely  covered  him  with  her  sheepskin  coat 
when  he,  stretching  himself  out  majestically  on 
the  oven,  fell  into  a  heroic  slumber.  INIore  than 
once  I  had  occasion  to  observe  in  him  the  involun- 
tary manifestations  of  a  certain  surly  ferocity. 
I  did  not  like  the  expression  of  his  face  when 

'  Hunters  for  nifihtiiiffalcs  are  familiar  witli  these  terms:    they  desig- 
nate the  best  "passages"  in  the  ni{ihtiiigale*s  song.— Author. 

32 


THE   MITJ.ER'S  WIFE 

lie  bit  the  neck  of  a  wounded  bird.  But  Ermolai 
never  remained  at  home  for  more  than  one  day; 
and,  away  from  home,  he  was  again  transformed 
into  "  Ermolka,"  as  he  was  called  for  a  hundred 
versts  round  about,  and  as  he  occasionally  called 
himself.'  Tlie  meanest  house-serf  was  conscious 
of  his  superiority  over  this  vagabond, — and,  pos- 
sibly for  that  very  reason,  treated  him  in  a 
friendly  manner;  while  the  peasants  first  gladly 
pursued  and  caught  him,  like  a  hare  in  the  field, 
but  afterward  released  him  and  bade  liim  God- 
speed, and  having  once  recognised  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  queer  fish,  they  did  not  touch  him  again, 
but  even  gave  him  bread,  and  entered  into  con- 
versation  with    him This   was   the   man 

whom  I  took  with  me  as  a  hunter,  and  with  him 
I  set  out  for  "  stand-shooting  "  in  a  large  birch 
grove  on  the  bank  of  the  Ista. 

Many  Russian  rivers  have  one  hilly  shore  and 
the  other  in  level  plains,  like  the  Volga;  so  has 
the  Ista.  This  little  river  winds  about  in  an  ex- 
tremely capricious  way,  writhing  like  a  snake, 
never  flows  straight  for  a  single  half-verst,  and, 
in  some  places,  from  the  crest  of  a  steep  hill, 
about  ten  versts  of  it  are  visible,  with  dams  and 
ponds,  mills,  vegetable-plots  enclosed  with  wil- 
lows, and  dense  gardens.  The  Ista  abounds 
in  fish,  especially  in  mullet   (the  peasants  catch 

*  The  diminutive  form  conveys  the  idea  of  an  unliable,  good   fel- 
low.    Ermolka  may  also  mean  the  skull-ca]>. — Translator. 

33 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SrORTS:MxVX 

them,  with  their  haiuls,  in  the  lieat  of  tlie  day, 
uiuler  the  hushes).  Small  sandpipers  fly  whis- 
tling along  the  roeky  shores,  dotted  with  cold, 
hright  springs;  wild  ducks  swim  out  into  the  cen- 
tre of  the  ponds,  and  gaze  cautiously  about; 
herons  stand  out  prominently  in  the  shadow,  in 

the  bays,  under  the  precipices We  had 

been  standing  at  "  stand-shooting  "  for  about  an 
hoiu',  and  had  killed  a  couple  of  brace  of  wood- 
cock ;  and,  being  desirous  of  trying  our  luck  once 
more  before  sunrise  (one  can  also  go  stand-shoot- 
ing early  in  the  morning),  we  decided  to  pass 
the  night  in  the  nearest  mill.  AVe  emerged 
from  the  grove,  and  descended  the  hill.  The 
river  was  flowing  on  in  dark-blue  waves;  the  air 
had  grown  thick,  burdened  with  the  nocturnal 
moisture.  We  knocked  at  the  gate.  The  dogs 
began  to  bark  in  the  yard.  "  Who  's  there?  " — 
rang  out  a  hoarse,  sleepy  voice. — "  Sportsmen: 
let  us  in  to  pass  the  night." — There  was  no  an- 
swer.— "  We  will  pay." — "  I  '11  go  and  tell  the 
master.  .  .  Shut  up,  you  damned  beasts!  .  .  .  . 
Ekh,  I  'd  like  to  murder  vou!  " — We  heard  the 
labourer  enter  the  cottage;  he  speedily  returned 
to  the  gate. — "  Xo,"  he  said,  "  the  master  does 
not  command  me  to  admit  you." — "  Why  not?  " 
— "  Why,  he  's  afraid:  vou  are  hunters;  the  first 
thing  anybody  knows,  you  '11  be  setting  the  mill 
afire;  you  see,  you  have  that  sort  of  ammunition." 
— "  \Vhat  nonsense!  " — "  Anyhow,  our  mill  was 

34 


THE  iNIILLER'S  WIFE 

burned  down  the  year  before  last:  some  cattle- 
drovers  spent  the  night  here,  and,  you  know, 
probably  they  set  it  ablaze." — "  But,  brother,  we 
can't  spend  the  night  out  of  doors,  of  course!  " — 
"  As  you  please."  ....  He  went  off,  clumping 
with  his  boots. 

Ermolai  wished  him  divers  unpleasant  things. 
"  Let 's  go  to  the  village," — he  ejaculated,  at 
last,  with  a  sigh.  But  it  was  two  versts  to  the 
village.  ..."  Let 's  pass  the  night  here," — said 
I: — ^"  it  is  warm  out  of  doors;  the  miller  will 
send  us  out  some  straw,  if  we  pay  for  it." 
— Ermolai  agreed,  without  making  any  difficul- 
ties.^— Again  we  began  to  thump  on  the  gate. — 
"  What  do  you  want  now?  " — rang  out  the  voice 
of  the  hired  man  again: — "I  told  you,  you 
could  n't." — We  explained  to  him  what  we 
wanted.  He  went  to  consult  his  master,  and 
came  back  accompanied  by  the  latter.  The 
wicket  screeched.  The  miller  made  his  appear- 
ance, a  man  of  lofty  stature,  with  a  fat  face,  a 
bull  neck,  and  a  huge,  round  belly.  He  assented 
to  my  proposal.  A  hundred  paces  from  the  mill 
there  was  a  tiny  shed,  open  on  all  sides.  Thither 
they  brought  us  straw  and  haj^;  the  workman 
placed  the  samovar  on  the  grass  beside  the 
stream,  and  squatting  down  on  his  heels,  began 

zealously  to  blow  into  the  pipe The  coals 

flared  up  brilliantly,  illuminating  his  youthful 
face.     The  miller  ran  to  arouse  his  wife,  and,  at 

35 


ME^SrOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

last,  himself  suggested  to  me  thai  we  should 
spend  the  night  in  his  cottage;  but  I  preferred 
to  remain  in  the  open  air.  The  miller's  M'ife 
brought  us  milk,  eggs,  potatoes,  and  bread.  The 
samovar  soon  began  to  hiss,  and  we  set  to  drink- 
ing tea.  Vapours  rose  from  the  river;  there  was 
no  wind;  the  corncrakes  were  calling  all  around 
us;  faint  noises  resounded  near  the  mill-wheels: 
now  the  drops  dripped  from  the  blades,  again 
the  w^ater  trickled  through  the  bars  of  the  sluice- 
gate. We  built  a  small  bonfire.  AVhile  Ermolai 
was  roasting  the  2)otatoes  in  the  ashes,  I  managed 
to  fall  into  a  doze A  faint,  repressed  whis- 
pering aroused  me.  I  raised  my  head:  before 
the  fire,  on  an  overturned  cask,  sat  the  miller's 
w^ife,  chatting  with  my  huntsman.  I  had  al- 
ready, from  her  garb,  her  moA  ements,  and  her 
mode  of  speech,  divined  that  she  w^as  of  the 
house-serf  class^ — not  a  peasant  w'oman,  and  not 
a  petty  burgheress;  but  only  now  did  I  scan  her 
face  w^ell.  Apparently,  she  was  about  thirty 
years  of  age;  her  thin,  ])ale  face  still  preserved 
traces  of  remarkable  beauty;  I  was  particularly 
pleased  by  her  eyes,  which  were  large  and  mourn- 
ful. She  had  her  elbows  propped  on  her  knees, 
and  her  face  rested  on  her  hands.  Ermolai  was 
sitting  wqth  his  back  toward  me,  and  feeding  the 
fire  with  chips. 

"  There  's  murrain  in  Zheltukhino  again," — 
said  the  miller's  wife: — "both  of  Father  Ivan's 

36 


THE  JMII.LER'S  WIFE 

cows    are    tk)\vii    with    it Lord    have 

mercy!  " 

"  And  how  are  your  pigs?  " — inquired  Ermo- 
lai,  after  a  pause. 

"  Thev  re  ahve." 

"  You  miglit,  at  least,  give  me  a  sucking-pig." 

The  miller's  wife  remained  silent  for  a  while, 
then  sighed. 

"  Who  's  this  you  're  with?  " — she  asked. 

"  With  a  gentleman — the  gentleman  from 
Kostomarovsk." 

Ermoliii  flung  several  fir-hranches  on  the  fire; 
the  branches  immediately  began  to  crackle  vig- 
orously, the  thick,  white  smoke  puffed  out 
straight  in  his  face. 

"  Why  would  n't  your  husband  let  us  into  the 
cottage?  " 

"  He  's  afraid." 

"What  a  fat-belly!  ....  My  dear  httle 
dove,  Arina  Timofyeevna,  do  thou  fetch  me  out 
a  little  glass  of  liquor!  " 

The  miller's  wife  rose,  and  disappeared  into 
the  gloom.  Ermolai  began  to  sing  in  an  under- 
tone : 


"  When  cO  my  loved  one  I  did  go, 
All  my  boots  I  quite  wore  out. 


?> 


Arina  returned  with  a  small  caraffe  and   a 
glass.    Ermolai  half  rose  to  his  feet,  crossed  him- 

37 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

self,  and  tossed  off'  a  glassful  at  a  gulp.  "  I 
love  it!  "  he  added. 

Again  the  miller's  wife  seated  herself  on  the 
cask. 

"  AVell,  how  gims  it,  Arina  Timofyeevna, — 
thou  art  still  ailing,  I  suppose? " 

"    XT'  T  " 

Yes,  1  am. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  INIy  cough  torments  me  at  night." 

"  The  gentleman  has  fallen  asleep,  appar- 
ently,"— said  Ermolai,  after  a  hrief  silence. — - 
"Don't  go  to  the  doctor,  Arina:  'twill  be  the 
worse  for  thee." 

"  I  'm  not  going,  as  it  is." 

"  But  do  thou  come  and  stay  with  me." 

Arina  bowed  her  head. 

"  I  11  drive  my  own  wife  away,  in  that  case," 
— went  or)  Ermolai.  .  .  "  I  really  will,  ma'am." 

"  You  'd  better  wake  up  your  master,  Ermolai 
Petrovitch ;  the  potatoes  are  roasted  enough,  you 
see." 

"  Why,  let  him  go  on  with  his  nap," — re- 
marked my  faithful  servant,  indiff'erently, — "  he 
has  run  his  legs  off*,  so  he  is  sleepy." 

I  turned  over  on  the  hav.  Ermolai  rose,  and 
came  over  to  me. — "  The  potatoes  are  ready,  sir, 
please  eat." 

I  emerged  from  beneath  the  shed-roof;  the 
miller's  wufe  rose  from  the  cask,  and  started  to 
go  away.     I  entered  into  conversation  with  her. 

38 


THE  MII.LER'S  WIFE 

"  Is  it  lon<>-  since  you  took  over  this  mill?  " 
"  Our  second  year  began  on  Trinity-day."  ^ 
"  Where  does  tliy  husband  come  from?  " 
Anna  did  not  understand  my  question. 
"Whence  comes  thy  husband?"^ — repeated 
Ermolai,  raising*  Ijis  voice. 

"  From  Byelyoff .  He  is  a  burgher  of  Bye- 
lyofF." 

"  And  art  thou  also  from  ByelyoiF?  " 
"  No,  I  'm  a  serf.  ...  I  was  a  serf." 
"Whose?" 

"  Mr.  Zvyerkoff 's.    Now  I  'm  a  free  woman." 
"Of  what  Zvyerkoff?" 
"  Alexander  Silitch." 
"  Wert  not  thou  his  wife's  maid?  " 
"  And  how  do  you  know  that? — Yes,  I  was." 
I  gazed  at  Arina  with  redoubled  curiosity  and 
sympathy. 

"  I  know  thy  master," — I  went  on. 
"  Do  you?  " — she  replied,  in  a  low  voice, — and 
dropped  her  eyes. 

I  must  tell  the  reader  why  I  gazed  upon  Arina 
with  so  much  sympathy.  During  my  sojourn 
in  Petersburg,  I  had  accidentally  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  iNIr.  Zvyerkoff.''     He  occupied  a 

^  In  the  Eastern  Cluirch  this  is  Whitsunday,  or  Pentecost.  Tlie 
following  day,  which  is  an  equally  great  feast,  is  "  the  Day  of  the 
Descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit."  But  the  grand  Pentecost  celebra- 
tion is  on  Trinity-day. — Translator. 

-The  gentleman  says,  correctly,  "otkiida"  (whence);  Ermoldi 
says,   incorrectly,   "  otkeleva." — Translator. 

^  Zvyerkoff  is  derived  from  Zvycr,  a  wild  beast. — Translator. 

39 


ME.ArOlHS    OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

rather  important  post,  and  bore  the  reputation 
of  being  a  clever  and  active  man.  He  had  a  wife, 
plump,  sensitive,  tearfid,  and  ill-tempered,  a 
lieavy,  commonplace  creature;  he  had  also  a  son, 
a  regular  little  squire's  son  of  the  old-fashioned 
type,  spoiled  and  stupid.  ISlr.  Zvyerkoff 's  per- 
sonal appearance  did  not  predispose  one  much  in 
his  favour:  tiny,  mouse-like  eyes  gazed  craftily 
out  of  a  broad,  almost  square  face,  a  large,  sharp- 
pointed  nose,  with  flaring  nostrils,  projected 
from  it ;  closely-clipped  grey  hair  reared  itself  in 
a  brush  above  a  furrowed  brow,  thin  lips  twitched 
and  smiled  incessantly.  JNIr.  Zvyerkoff  gener- 
ally stood  with  his  legs  straddled  far  apart,  and 
his  thick  little  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  It 
once  fell  to  my  lot  to  drive  out  of  town  in  the 
same  carriage  with  him.  We  fell  into  conversa- 
tion. Being  an  experienced,  energetic  man,  INIr. 
Zvyerkoif  began  to  instruct  me  in  the  "  way  of 
truth." 

"  Permit  me  to  remark  to  you," — he  squeaked, 
at  last: — ■"  all  you  young  men  reason  and  talk 
about  everything  at  random:  you  kno\v  very  little 
about  your  own  fatherland;  Russia  is  an  un- 
known country  to  j^ou,  gentlemen, — that  's  what 
it  is!  ...  .  You  never  read  anything  but  German 
books.  Here,  for  example,  you  are  telling  me 
this,  that,  and  the  other,  about  .  .  .  well,  that  is 
to  say,  about  house-serfs.  .  .  .  Very  good,  I 
don't  deny  it,  that 's  all  very  good ;  but  you  don't 

40 


THE   IMILLKK'S  WIFE 

know  tliem,  yon  don't  know  what  sort  of  folks 
they  are/'  JNlr.  Zvyerkoff  hlew  his  nose  loudly, 
and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  "  iVUow  me  to  relate 
to  you,  as  an  example,  one  little  anecdote:  you 
may  find  it  interesting."  (^Ir.  Zvyerkoff*  cleared 
his  throat).  "  You  know,  I  suppose,  what  sort 
of  a  wife  1  have:  apparently,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  kinder  woman  than  she,  you  must 
agree  to  that.  Her  maids  never  have  any  hard- 
ships— their  life  is  simply  paradise  visibly  re- 
alised  But  my  wife  has  laid  it  down  as 

a  rule  for  herself:  not  to  keep  married  maids. 
Really,  it  's  not  the  thing  to  do:  children  will  ar- 
rive,— and  this,  and  that, — well,  and  how  is  a 
maid  to  look  after  her  mistress  then,  as  she 
should,  and  attend  to  her  ways:  she  no  longer 
cares  for  that,  she  's  no  longer  thinking  of  that. 
One  must  reason  humanely.  So,  sir,  we  were 
once  driving  through  our  village,  it  must  be — I 
want  to  tell  you  accurately,  not  to  lie — fifteen 
years  ago.  We  saw  that  the  Elder  had  a  little  girl, 
a  daughter,  a  very  pretty  creature;  there  was 
even,  you  know,  something  obsequious  about  her 
manners.  INIy  wife  says  to  me:  '  Koko,' — that  is 
to  say,  you  understand,  that 's  what  she  calls 
me, — '  let 's  take  this  young  girl  to  Petersburg ; 
she  pleases  me,  Koko.'  .  .  .  '  We  '11  take  her, 
with  pleasure,'  says  I.  The  Elder,  of  course, 
fell  at  our  feet;  he  could  not  have  expected  such 

luck,  you  understand Well,  of  course, 

41 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

the  girl  wept,  out  of  folly.  Now,  it  really  is 
rather  painful,  at  first :  the  parental  house  .  .  .  . 
in  general  ....  it 's  not  in  the  least  surpris- 
ing. Rut  she  soon  got  used  to  us;  at  first  we  put 
her  in  the  maids'  room;  they  taught  her,  of 
course.  And  what  do  you  think?  ....  The 
girl  made  astonishing  progress;  my  wife  simply 
took  a  violent  fancy  to  her,  and  at  last  appointed 
her  as  her  personal  maid,  over  the  head  of  the 

other  maids ohserve!  .  .  .  And  I  must  do 

her  the  justice  to  sav,  that  mv  wife  had  never 
before  had  such  a  maid, — positively,  never;  oblig- 
ing, modest,  obedient — simply,  everything  that 
is  required.  On  the  other  hand,  I  must  admit 
that  my  wife  petted  her  too  much:  she  dressed 
her  capitally,  fed  her  from  our  own  table,^  gave 
her  tea  to  drink  ....  well,  and  every  sort  of 
thing  you  can  imagine!  So,  after  this  fashion, 
she  ser\'ed  my  wife  for  ten  years.  x\ll  of  a  sud- 
den, one  fine  morning,  just  fancy,  Arina  comes 
in — her  name  was  Arina — comes  into  my  study, 
without  being  announced, — and,  flop!  she  goes 
at  my  feet.  ...  I  will  tell  you  frankly,  that  I 
cannot  endure  that  sort  of  thing.  A  man  should 
never  forget  his  dignity,  is  n't  that  so?  " — '  What 
dost  thou  want?' — 'Dear  little  father,  Alexan- 
der Silitch,  I  crave  a  favour.' — '  AVhat  is  it?' — 
'  Permit  me  to  marry.' — I  must  confess  to  you 

'  Russian  servants  always  used  to  have,  and  generally  have  still, 
their  own  cook  and  special  food,  such  as  cal)l)age  soujj,  Ijuckwheal 
groats,  and  sour,  black  rye  bread. — Transi-atoh. 

42 


THE  MILLER'S   WIFE 

that  I  was  amazed. — '  But  dost  not  thou  know, 
fool,  that  thy  mistress  has  no  other  maid? ' — '  I 
will  serve  the  mistress  as  usual.' — '  Nonsense! 
Nonsense!  thy  mistress  does  not  keep  married 
maids.' — '  Malanya  can  take  my  place.' — '  I  beg 

that  thou  wilt  not  argue! ' — '  As  you  will.' 

I  must  admit,  that  I  was  dumfounded.  I  tell 
you  this  is  the  sort  of  man  I  am:  nothing  so 
offends  me,  I  venture  to  assert,  so  violently  of- 
fends me,  as  ingratitude For  there  is  no 

need  of  my  telling  you — you  know  what  sort  of 
a  wife  I  have:  an  angel  in  the  flesh,  kindness  in- 
expressible  It  seems  as  though  even  a 

malefactor  would  have  pity  on  her.  I  ordered 
Arina  out  of  the  room.  Perhaps  she  '11  recover 
her  senses,  I  thought ;  one  does  n't  wish,  you 
know,  to  believe  evil,  black  ingratitude  in  a  per- 
son. But  what  do  you  think?  Six  months  later, 
she  is  good  enough  to  apply  to  me  again,  with  the 
same  request.  Then  I  drove  her  away  in  wrath, 
I  admit  it,  and  threatened  her,  promised  to  tell 

my  wife.     I  was  upset But  conceive  my 

surprise:  a  little  while  later,  my  wife  comes  to 
me,  in  tears,  so  agitated  that  I  was  fairly  fright- 
ened.— '  What  has  happened  ? ' — '  Arma 

You  understand.  ...  I  am  ashamed  to  speak 
out.' — 'It  cannot  be!  ...  .  who  is  it?' — '  Pe- 
trushka,  the  footman.'  I  flew  into  a  rage. 
That 's  the  kind  of  man  I  am  ....  don't  like 

half-measures! Petrushka  ....  is  not  to 

43 


MEiyiOlKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAX 

blame.  Wc  can  punish  him;  but,  in  my  opinion, 
he  is  not  to  bhime.  Arina  ....  well,  what  is 
there  ....  well,  well,  what  more  is  there  to  be 
said? '  Of  course,  I  immediately  gave  orders  to 
have  her  hair  cut  off  short,  to  clothe  her  in  striped 
ticking,  and  to  exile  her  to  the  country.  ]My  wife 
was  deprived  of  an  excellent  maid,  but  tliere  was 
no  help  for  it :  one  cannot  tolerate  disorder  in  the 
household.     It   is  better  to  amputate  an  ailing 

member  at  one  blow AVell,  well,  and  now, 

judge  for  yoiu'self, — well,  now,  you  know  what 
my  wife  is,  you  see,  you  see,  she  's,she  's,she  's  . . .  . 
an  angel,  in  short!  ....  She  had  got  attached 
to  Arina,  you  see, — and  Arina  kne-\v  it,  and  was 

not  ashamed Hey?    No,  tell  me  .  .  . 

hey?  But  what 's  the  use  of  discussing  it!  In  any 
case,  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  And  that 
girl's  ingratitude  pained  me,  me  myself,  for  a 

long  time.     Say  what  you  will you.  need 

not  look  for  heart,  for  feeling  in  those  creatures! 
You  may  feed  a  wolf  as  you  will,  he  always  has 

his   eye   on   the   forest Forward    march, 

science!  But  I  merely  wished  to  prove  to 
you " 

And,  without  finishing  his  sentence,  INIr. 
Zvyerkoff  tiu-ned  away  liis  head,  and  wi-a])ped 
himself  more  closely  in  his  cloak,  manfully 
stifling  his  involuntary  emotion. 

The  reader  now  understands,  ])robably,  why 
I  gazed  at  Arina  with  sympathy. 

4>4> 


THE    INIILLER'S    WIFE 

"  Hast  thou  been  inarrieil  long  to  the  miller?  " 
— I  asked  her,  at  last. 

"  Two  years." 

"  But  is  it  possible  that  thy  master  permitted 
it?" 

"  ^ly  freedom  was  purchased." 

"  By  whom?  " 

"  Savely  Alexyeevitch." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  My  husband."  (Ermolai  smiled  to  himself.) 
"  But  did  my  master  talk  to  you  about  me?  " — 
added  Arina,  after  a  brief  silence. 

I  did  not  know  what  reply  to  make  to  her  ques- 
tion. "Arina!"  shouted  the  miller  from  afar. 
She  rose  and  went  away. 

"Is   her   husband    a   good    man?" — I    asked 
Ermolai. 
So-so. 

"  And  have  they  any  children?  " 

"  They  had  one,  but  it  died." 

"  How  did  it  come  about — did  the  miller  take 
a  liking  to  her?  Did  he  pay  a  large  ransom  for 
her?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     She  knows  how  to  read  and 

write;   in   his   business   it that   sort   of 

thing  ....  is    an    advantage.      Consequently, 
he  must  have  taken  a  fancy  to  her. 

"  And  hast  thou  known  her  long? 

"  Yes.  I  used  to  go  to  her  master's  formerly. 
Their  manor  is  not  far  from  here." 

45 


5> 


MEMOIKS    OF   A    SrOKTSMAX 

"  Aiul  dost  thou  know  Petriishka  the  foot- 
man? 

"  Piotr  \^asiHevitchJ'   Of  course  1  know  him." 

"  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  He  has  become  a  sokher." 

We  fell  silent. 

"  She  appears  to  be  ill?" — I  asked  Ermolai, 

at  last. 

"111?  I  should  say  so!  ....  I  think  the 
stand-shooting  will  l)e  good  to-morrow.  It 
would  n't  be  a  bad  thing  for  you  to  get  some  sleep 
now." 

A  flock  of  wild  ducks  dashed  whistling  over 
our  heads,  and  we  heard  them  drop  down  on  the 
river,  not  far  from  us.  It  was  completely  dark 
now,  and  beginning  to  grow  cold;  a  nightingale 
was  trilling  loudly  in  the  grove.  We  buried  our- 
selves in  tlie  hay,  and  went  to  sleep. 


46 


Ill 

THE  RASPBERRY  WATER 

The  heat  often  becomes  unbearable  at  the  be- 
ginning of  August.  At  that  time,  between 
twelve  and  three  o'clock,  the  most  resolute  and 
concentrated  man  is  in  no  condition  to  go  hunt- 
ing, and  the  most  devoted  dog  begins  "  to  clean 
the  sportsman's  spurs,"  that  is  to  say,  trots  be- 
hind him  at  a  foot-pace,  with  his  eyes  painfully 
screwed  up,  and  his  tongue  lolling  out  in  an 
exaggerated  manner;  and,  in  reply  to  his  mas- 
ter's reproaches,  he  meekly  wags  his  tail,  and  ex- 
presses confusion  on  his  countenance,  but  does 
not  advance.  Precisely  on  such  a  day  I  chanced 
to  be  out  on  a  hunt.  For  a  long  time,  I  resisted 
"  the  temptation  to  lie  down  somewhere  in  the 
shade,  if  only  for  a  moment ;  for  a  long  time,  my 
indefatigable  dog  continued  to  rummage  among 
the  bushes,  although,  evidently,  he  did  not  expect 
any  rational  result  from  his  feverish  activity.  At 
last,  the  stifling  sultriness  compelled  me  to  think 
of  saving  my  last  strength  and  faculties.  I  man- 
aged to  drag  myself  to  the  little  river  Ista,  al- 
ready familiar  to  my  indulgent  readers,  lowered 
myself  from  a  crag,  and  strolled  along  the  damp, 

47 


MEMOIKS   OF   A   SPORTS.MAN 

yt'llow  saiicl  in  the  direction  of  a  spring  known 
throughout   the   whole  neighbourhood  as   "  The 
Raspberry   Water."      This    spring    wells    forth 
from  a  crevice  in  the  bank,  which  gradually  is 
converted    into   a   small    but    deep   ravine,    and 
twenty  paces  thence  it  falls  into  the  river  with 
a    merry,    babbling    sound.      Oak    bushes    have 
overgrown  the  slopes  of  the  ravine;  around  the 
spring,   soft,   velvety   grass   gleams   green;   the 
sun's   rays   hardly   ever   touch    its   cold,    silvery 
waters.     I  reached  the  spring;  on  the  grass  lay 
a  birch-bark  dipper,  left  behind  by  some  passing 
peasant  for  public  use.    I  took  a  drink,  lay  down 
in  the  shade,  and  cast  a  glance  around  me.     At 
the  bay  formed  by  the  spring's  entrance  into  the 
river,  and  for  that  reason  always  covered  with 
a  faint  ripple,  sat  two  old  men,  ^vith  their  backs 
toward  me.     One  of  them,  rather  tliickset  and 
lofty  of  stature,  in  a  neat,  dark-green  kaftan 
and  a  flat  felt  cap,  Avas  catching  flsli, — the  other, 
a  thin,  small  man  in  a  patched  seersucker  short 
coat,  and  without  a  cap,  was  holding  the  pot  of 
worms  on  his  lap,  and  now  and  then  })assing  his 
hand  over  his  small  grey  head,  as  though  desirous 
of  protecting  it  from  the  sun.    \  looked  more  in- 
tently at  him.  and  recognised  in  him  Styopushka 
from  Shumikhino.    I  beg  the  reader's  permission 
to  introduce  this  man  to  him. 

A  few  versts  distant  from  my  handet,  lies  the 
large  village  Shumikliino,  with  a  stone  church, 

48 


THE   RxVSPBKKK\     W^ATER 

erected  in  the  luinie  of  Saints. Koziiia  and  Da- 
mitin.  Opposite  this  ehm'ch,  a  spacious  manor- 
house  of  a  huided  proprietor  formerly  flaunted 
itself,  surrounded  by  various  out!)uildings, — 
offices,  work-shops,  bath-houses,  and  temporary 
kitchens,  detached  wings  for  visitors  and  stew- 
ards, hot-houses  for  flowers,  swings  for  the  re- 
tainers, and  other  moi'e  or  less  useful  structures. 
In  this  mansion  dwelt  wealthy  landed  gentry, 
and  everything  was  proceeding  in  an  orderly 
manner  with  them, — when,  all  of  a  sudden,  one 
fine  morning,  this  whole  blessed  establishment ' 
was  burned  to  the  ground.  The  gentry  removed 
to  another  nest;  the  farm  sank  into  a  state  of 
desolation.  The  vast  heap  of  ashes  where  the 
manor  had  stood  was  converted  into  a  vegetable- 
garden,  encumbered  here  and  there  by  piles  of 
bricks,  the  remnants  of  the  former  foundations. 
A  tinv  hut  had  hastilv  been  constructed  from  the 
surviving  beams,  covered  with  barge-planks," 
which  had  been  purchased  ten  years  previously 
for  the  erection  of  a  pavilion  in  the  Gothic  style ; 
and  the  gardener,  Mitrofan,  with  his  wife,  Ak- 
sinya,  and  their  seven  children  were  established 
therein.  jNIitrofan  received  orders  to  supply  the 
master's  table,  one  hundred  and  fifty  versts  dis- 

'  In  the  original,  blagoddl,  l)Iessing. — Translator. 

-  Tlif  ha'rges  used  on  Hiissian  rivers  to  transport  firewood  and 
sa  forth  are  riveted  togetiier  with  huge  wooden  pegs  only,  and 
are  i)roken  up  at  the  end  of  tlie  voyage.  The  lavishly  perforated 
planks  sell  for  a  very  low  price.     Tuansi.ator. 

49 


ME.AIOIRS   OF   xV   SPORTSMAN 

tant,  witli  fresh  licrbs  and  vegetables;  to  Aksinya 
was  entrusted  tlie  oversight  of  the  Tyrolean  cow, 
which  had  been  purchased  at  a  high  price  in  ]Mos- 
cow,  but  was  unfortunately  deprived  of  all  pos- 
sibility of  reproduction,  and,  consequently,  had 
never  given  any  milk  since  she  had  been  acquired; 
into  her  hands  was  given  also  a  crested,  smoke- 
coloured  drake,  the  "quality's"  sole  fowl;  no 
duties  were  assigned  to  the  children,  on  account 
of  their  tender  age,  which,  nevertheless,  did  not, 
in  the  least,  prevent  their  becoming  thoroughly 
lazy.  I  chanced  to  pass  the  night,  on  a  couple  of 
occasions,  with  this  gardener, — I  was  in  the  habit 
of  getting  cucumbers  from  him  in  passing,  which 
cucumbers,  heaven  knows  why,  were  character- 
ised even  in  summer  by  their  size,  their  worth- 
less, watery  flavoiu",  and  their  thick,  yellow  skin. 
It  was  at  his  house  that  I  had  seen  Styopushka 
for  the  first  time.  With  the  exception  of  Mitro- 
fan  and  his  family,  and  of  the  deaf,  old  church- 
warden, Gerasim,  who  lived  as  a  charity  in  a  tiny 
chamber  at  the  house  of  the  one-eyed  soldier's 
widow,  not  a  single  house-serf  remained  in  Shu- 
mikhino,  for  it  was  not  possible  to  regard  Styo- 
pushka, whom  I  intend  to  introduce  to  the  reader, 
either  as  a  man  in  general,  or  as  a  house-serf  in 
particular. 

Every  individual  has  at  least  some  sort  of  posi- 
tion in  society,  some  connection  or  other;  every 
house-serf  receives,  if  not  wages,  at  least  the  so- 

50 


THE    RASPBERRY   WATER 

called  "allowance":  Styopuslika  received  abso- 
lutely no  aid,  was  related  to  no  one,  no  one  knew 
of  his  existence.  This  man  had  not  even  a  past; 
no  one  mentioned  him ;  it  is  hardly  probable  tliat 
he  was  even  included  in  the  revision-lists/  Ob- 
scure rumours  were  in  circulation,  to  the  effect 
that,  once  upon  a  time,  he  had  been  valet  to  som^^i 
one;  but  who  he  was,  whence  he  came,  whose  son 
he  was,  how  he  had  got  into  the  number  of  the 
Shumfkhino  subjects,  in  w^hat  manner  he  had 
acquired  the  seersucker  kaftan  which  he  had 
worn  from  time  immemorial,  where  he  lived, 
what  he  lived  on, — as  to  these  jDoints  positively 
no  one  had  the  slightest  idea,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  no  one  bothered  himself  about  these  ques- 
tions. Grandpa  Trofimitch,  who  knew  the  gene- 
alogy of  all  the  house-serfs  in  an  ascending  line 
back  to  the  fourth  generation,  once  said  merely, 
that  Stepan  was  related  to  a  Turkish  woman, 
whom  the  late  master.  Brigadier"  Alexyei  Ro- 
manitch,  had  been  pleased  to  bring  back  wdth  him 
from  a  campaign,  in  his  baggage-train.  And 
it  even  happened  that,  on  festival  days,  days 
of  universal  gifts  and  hospitable  entertainment, 
with  buckw^heat  patties  and  green  wine,  after  the 
ancient    Russian    custom, — even    on    such    days, 

'  The  revised  lists  of  male  serfs,  made  at  intervals  of  years,  in 
tlie  pre-emanci})ati()ii   days,  as  a  basis  of  taxation. — TuAxsi.ATOii. 

"  A  military  rank  between  Colonel  and  IJeutenant-General, 
instituted  by  Peter  the  Great,  and  abolished  under  Paul  I. — 
Translator. 

51 


]ME:\rOIKS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

Styopusliku  was  not  wont  to  present  Iiinisell'  at 
the  tables  set  forth  or  at  the  casks  of  liquor,  did 
not  make  his  reverence,  did  not  kiss  the  master's 
hand,  did  not  drain  off  at  a  draught  a  glass  under 
the  master's  eye  and  to  tlie  master's  health,  a 
glass  filled  by  the  fat  hand  ol*  the  superinten- 
dent,— perchance,  some  kind  soul,  in  passing, 
woidd  bestow  upon  the  })oor  fellow  the  bit  of 
patty  whjcli  he  had  not  been  able  to  finish  off. 
At  Easter,  people  exclianged  the  kiss  of  greeting 
with  him,  but  he  did  not  tuck  up  his  greasy  sleeve, 
he  did  not  pull  a  red  egg  out  of  his  rear  pocket, 
he  did  not  present  it,  panting  and  blinking,  to  the 
young  master,  or  even  to  the  gentlewoman,  the 
mistress  herself.  In  shimmer,  he  lived  in  a  pen 
behind  the  chicken-coop,  and  in  winter,  in  the 
anteroom  of  the  bath-house;  in  extremely  cold 
weather  he  spent  tlie  night  in  the  hay-loft. 
People  got  used  to  seeing  him  about,  they  even 
gave  him  a  kick  sometimes,  but  no  one  entered 
into  conversation  with  him,  and  he  himself,  ap- 
parently, had  never  opened  his  mouth  since  he 
was  born.  After  the  conflagration,  this  forsaken 
man  took  refuge  with  the  gardener,  INlitrofan. 
The  gardener  let  him  alone,  he  did  not  say  to 
him,  "  Live  with  me,"  but  he  did  not  turn  him  out 
of  doors.  And  Styopushka  did  not  live  with  tlie 
gardener:  he  lodged  in,  he  hovered  about,  tlie 
vegetable-garden.  He  walked  and  moved  with- 
out making  a  soimd;  he  sneezed  and  coughed 

52 


THE    RASPBERKY    WATER 

nto  his  liand,  not  without  terror;  he  was  eternally 
hustling  ahout  and  making  liimself  husy,  like  an 
mt;  and  all  for  his  food,  for  his  food  alone. 
And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  had  he  not  worried 
iihout  his  nourishment  from  morning  until  night, 
—my  Styopushka  would  have  died  of  hunger. 
T  is  a  bad  tiling  not  to  know  in  the  morning 
what  you  will  have  had  to  eat  by  nightfall!  Now, 
Styopushka  would  be  sitting  under  the  hedge, 
gnawing  at  a  radish,  or  sucking  at  a  carrot,  or 
crushing  a  dirty  head  of  cabbage  beneath  him; 
again,  he  would  be  carrying  a  bucket  of  water 
somewhere  or  other,  and  grunting  over  it;  and 
again,  he  would  light  a  tiny  fire  under  a  pot,  and 
fling  some  black  morsels,  drawn  from  the  breast 
of  his  shirt,  into  the  pot ;  or  he  would  be  pounding 
away  at  his  own  place  in  the  store-room  with  a 
billet  of  wood,  driving  in  a  nail,  or  putting  up  a 
small  shelf  for  his  bread.  And  all  this  he  did  in 
silence,  as  though  from  around  a  corner:  cast  a 
glance,  and  he  had  already  vanished.  And  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  he  would  absent  himself  for  a 
couple  of  days ;  of  course,  no  one  noticed  his  ab- 
sence  And  the  first  you  knew,  there  he  was 

again,  somewhere  near  the  hedge,  placing  chips 
stealthily  under  the  tripod.  His  face  was  small, 
his  eyes  were  yellowish,  his  hair  grew  clear  down 
to  his  eyebrows,  he  had  a  small,  pointed  nose, 
very  large  ears,  transparent  like  those  of  a  bat, 
a  beard  which  looked  as  apparently  of  a  fort- 

53 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

night's  growtli,  never  any  more  of  it,  never  any 
less.  This  was  the  Styopiishka  whom  I  encoun- 
tered on  the  hank  of  the  Ista,  in  the  company  of 
another  old  man. 

I  went  up  to  him,  hade  him  good  morning, 
and  seated  mvself  hv  his  side.  In  Stvopiishka's 
companion  I  recognised  another  acquaintance; 
he  Mas  a  man  who  had  belonged  to  Count  Piotr 
Hitch  *  *  *,  and  had  been  set  at  liberty  by 
him,  ]Mikhailo  Savelitch,  nicknamed  The  Fog 
(Tuman).  He  lived  with  the  consumptive  petty 
burgher  of  BolkhofF  who  kept  the  posting-house, 
where  I  stopped  quite  frequently.  The  young 
officials  and  other  j^ersons  of  leisure  who  traverse 
the  Orel  highway  (the  merchants,  laden  with 
their  striped  feather-beds,^  care  not  for  it)  can 
still  see,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  big,  church- 
village  of  Troitzkoe  (Trinity),  a  huge,  wooden, 
two-storied  house  utterlv  deserted,  with  roof  fall- 
ing  to  ruin,  and  windows  tightly  nailed  up,  which 
stands  on  the  very  verge  of  the  road.  xVt  mid- 
day, in  clear,  sunny  weather,  nothing  more  mel- 
ancholy can  be  imagined  than  this  ruin.  Here 
once  dwelt  Count  Piotr  Ilitch,  famous  for  his 
hospitality,  a  wealthy  grandee  of  the  olden  days. 
All  the  government  used  to  assemble  at  his  house, 
and  dance  and  amuse  themselves  gloriously,  to 
the  deafening  thunder  of  a  home-trained  orches- 

'  Even  now,  in  some  parts  of  Russia,  mattresses,  sheets,  and 
towels  must  l)e  carried  by  the  traveller;  and  down-pillows,  also,  are 
very  generally  carried. — Translator. 

54 


THE    RASPBEKRV   WATER 

tra,  the  crash  of  rockets  iiiid  Roman  candles;  and, 
in  all  prohability,  more  than  one  old  woman,  who 
now  passes  the  deserted  mansion  of  the  gentry, 
sighs  and  recalls  the  days  gone  by,  and  her  van- 
ished youth,  l^ong  did  the  Count  hold  wassail, 
long  did  he  stroll  about,  with  a  courteous  smile, 
among  the  throng  of  his  obsequious  guests;  but, 
unhappily,  his  estate  did  not  hold  out  to  the  end 
of  his  life.  Completely  ruined,  he  betook  him- 
self to  Petersbiu'g,  sought  a  jilace  in  the  service, 
and  died  in  a  hotel  chamber,  before  he  had  re- 
ceived an  answer.  The  Fog  had  served  as  his 
butler,  and  had  received  his  emancipation  papers 
during  the  Count's  lifetime.  He  was  a  man  of 
sixt}^,  with  a  regular  and  agreeable  countenance. 
He  smiled  almost  constantly,  as  only  people  of 
Katherine  the  Second's  time  do  smile  nowa- 
days, good-naturedly  and  majestically;  when 
he  talked,  he  slowly  thrust  forward  and  com- 
pressed his  lips,  caressingly  screwed  up  his  eyes, 
and  uttered  his  words  somewhat  through  his  nose. 
He  blew  his  nose  and  took  snufF  in  a  leisurely 
way  also,  as  though  he  were  engaged  in  serious 
business. 

"  Well,  how  goes  it,  INIikhailo  Savelitch," — I 
began: — "  hast  thou  caught  any  fish?  " 

"  Wh}^  please  to  look  in  the  basket  yonder: 
I  've  caught  two  perch,  and  five  small  mullet. 
»  .  .   Show  them,  Styopka.  " 

Styopushka  held  the  wicker  basket  toward  me. 

55 


MEMOIRS    or   A   SPORTSMAN 

"How  art  thou  getting  on,  Stepan?" — I 
asked  him. 

"  L  ....  i  ....  i  .  .  .  a-a  ....  so-so-o,  dear 
little  father,  pretty  well," — replied  Stepan, 
stammering  as  though  a  pud  weight  were  hung 
on  his  tongue. 

"And  is  ^Nlitrofan  welH  " 

"  Yes,  o-o-of course,  dear  little  fa- 
ther." 

The  poor  fellow  turned  away. 

"  The  fish  are  n't  hiting  well,  somehow," — re- 
marked The  Fog: — "it's  awfully  hot;  the  fish 
have  all  hidden  themselves  under  the  bushes,  and 

gone   to   sleep Bait    the   hook    with   a 

worm,  Styopa."  (Styopushka  got  a  worm,  laid 
it  on  his  palm,  gave  it  a  couple  of  whacks,  put  it 
on  the  hook,  spat  on  it,  and  gave  it  to  The  Fog. ) 

"  Thanks,   Styopa.  .  .  .  And  you,  dear  little 
father," — he  went  on,  turning  to  me : — "  you  are 
pleased  to  go  a-hunting?  " 
As  you  see. 

"  Just  so,  sir And  what 's  that  hound 

of  yours,  Fnglish  or  some  sort  of  Kurland  ani- 
mal? " 

The  old  man  was  fond  of  showing  off :  as  nmch 
as  to  say,  "  We  've  seen  the  world  also !  "     . 

"  I  don't  know  of  what  breed  he  is,  but  he  's  a 
good  one." 

"  Just  so,  sir.  .  .  .  And  are  you  pleased  to 
travel  with  dogs?  " 

"  I  have  a  couple  of  l-^ashes." 

56 


THE    RASPBERRY   WATER 

The  Fog  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  That 's  exactly  the  way:  one  man  is  i'ond  of 
dogs,  and  another  would  n't  take  them  as  a  gift. 
What  1  think,  according  to  my  simple  judg- 
ment, is:  that  dogs  should  he  kept  more  for  the 

dignity  of  the  thing,  so  to  speak And 

that  everything  should  he  kept  in  style :  and  that 
the  horses  shoidd  he  in  style,  as  is  proper,  and 
everything  in  style.  The  late  Count — may  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  he  his!  -was  not  a  sportsman 
by  nature,  I  nuist  admit;  but  he  kept  dogs,  and 
was  ])leased  to  go  out  with  them  a  couple  of  times 
a  year.  The  whippers-in  would  assemble  in  the 
courtyard,  in  scarlet  kaftans  trimmed  with  gal- 
loon, and  blow  blasts  on  their  horns;  his  lUus- 
triousness  would  condescend  to  come  out,  and  his 
Illustriousness's  horse  would  be  led  up;  his  Illus- 
triousness  would  mount,  and  the  head  huntsman 
would  put  his  feet  into  the  stirrups,  take  off  his 
cap,  and  present  the  reins  to  him  in  it.  His 
Illustriousness  would  deign  to  crack  his  hunt- 
ing-crop, and  the  whippers-in  would  begin  to 
halloo,  and  move  away  from  the  courtyard.  A 
groom  would  ride  behind  his  Illustriousness,  and 
lead  the  master's  two  favourite  hounds  in  a  leash, 
with  his  own  hands,  and  would  so  keep  a  watch, 

you   know And   he   sits  high   aloft,   the 

groom  does,  on  a  kazak  saddle,^  such  a  rosy- 
cheeked  fellow  he  was,  and  rolls  his  little  eyes 

'The  kazak  saddle  has  a  fat  down-cushion,  between  a  liigh  pom- 
mel and  hifch  I)ack. — Traxslator. 

o7 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

around Well,  and  of  course  there  were 

guests  on  this  occasion.  And  amusement  and 
honoiu'  were  observed.  .  .  .  Akh,  he  lias  broken 
loose,  the  Asiatic!  " — he  suddenly  added,  pulling 
out  liis  hook. 

"  They  say  that  the  Count  led  a  pretty  lively 
life  in  his  day — how  was  that?  " — I  asked. 

The  old  man  spat  on  the  worm,  and  flung  in  his 
hook. 

"  He  was  a  very  lordly  man,  everybody  knew, 
sir.  The  leading  persons  from  Petersburg,  as 
one  may  say,  used  to  come  to  visit  him.  They 
used  to  sit  at  table  and  eat  in  their  blue  ribbons. 
Well,  and  he  was  a  master-hand  at  entertaining 
them.  He  would  summon  me  to  him:  '  Fog,' 
says  he,  '  I  require  some  live  sterlet  to-morrow; 
order  them  to  be  procured,  dost  thou  hear? ' — 
'  I  obey,  your  Illustriousness.'  He  used  to  im- 
port  embroidered  coats,  wigs,  canes,  perfumes, 
ladekolon  ^  snuff-boxes,  such  huge  pictures,  of 
the  best  quality,  from  Paris  itself.  He  would 
give  a  l)anquet, — O  Lord  and  Sovereign  INIaster 
of  my  life !  -  what  fireworks  and  pleasure-drives 
there  would  be!  They  would  even  fire  off  can- 
non. There  were  forty  musicians  alone  on  hand. 
He  kept  a  (German  bandmaster;  and  the  Cxcrman 
was  awfully  conceited:  he  wanted  to  eat  at  the 
same  table  with  the  gentlemen  and  ladies;  so  his 

'  Eau  de  Cologne. — Translator. 

^  A    quotation    from    a    familiar    ]irayer,    by    St.    Ephraim    of 
Syria,  used  during  the  Oreat   Fast    (Lent). — Tuaksi.ator. 

58 


THE    RASPBKlUn^    WATER 

Illustriousness  gave  orders  that  he  should  be 
turned  out  of  doors,  and  bidden  godspeed :  '  My 
niusieians  understand  their  })usiness  without  him,' 
says  he.  You  know  how  it  was:  the  master  had 
the  power  to  do  as  he  hked.  They  woukl  set 
to  dancing,  and  (huice  until  dawn,  and  chiefly  the 

lakosez-matradura 'eh eh 

eh thou  art  caught,  brother!  "  .  .  .  . 

(The  old  man  pulled  a  small  perch  out  of  the 
water.)  "  Take  it,  Styopa. — He  was  the  right 
sort  of  a  master,  the  master  was," — pursued  the 
old  man,  throwing  his  line  again: — "  and  he  was 
a  kind  soul  too !  He  'd  thrash  vou,  on  occasion — 
and  the  flrst  you  knew,  he  'd  have  forgotten  all 
about  it.  Okh,  those  mistresses.  Lord  forgive! 
'T  was  they  that  ruined  him.  And,  you  see,  he 
chose  them  chiefly  from  the  lower  classes.  You  'd 
suppose  that  they  could  n't  want  for  anything 
more.  But  no, — you  must  give  them  the  most 
costly  thing  in  the  whole  of  Europe !  And  I  must 
say:  why  not  live  at  ease, — that 's  the  proper 
thing  for  a  gentleman but  as  for  ruin- 
ing yourself,  that 's  not  right.  There  was  one 
in  particular :  her  name  was  Akulina ;  she  's  dead 
now,- — the  kingdom  of  heaven  be  hers!  She  was 
a  simple  wench,  the  daughter  of  the  village  po- 
liceman of  Sitovo,  and  such  a  termagant!  She 
used  to  slap  the  Count's  cheeks.  She  bewitched 
him    utterly.      She    shaved    the    brow    of    my 

'  L'^cossais. — Translator. 

59 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

nephew :  '  he  had  spilled  ehocolate  on  her  new 
gown  ....  and  he  was  not  the  only  one  w^hose 
brow  she  shaved.  Yes And  neverthe- 
less, it  was  a  good  little  time!" — added  the  old 
man,  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  he  dropped  his  eyes 
and  rela2)sed  into  silence. 

"  But  you  had  a  severe  master,  I  see," — I  be- 
gan, after  a  brief  pause. 

"  That  was  the  taste  then,  dear  little  father," 
— returned  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head. 

"  That  is  no  longer  done  now," — I  remarked, 
without  remo^'ing  my  eyes  frcnn  him. 

He  surveyed  me  with  a  sidelong  glance. 

"  Now,  things  are  better,  certainly," — he  mut- 
tered— and  flung  his  line  far  out. 

We  were  sitting  in  the  shade;  but  even  in  the 
shade  it  was  stifling.  The  heavy,  sultry  air 
seemed  to  have  died  down;  the  burning  face 
sought  the  breeze  with  anguish,  but  there  was  no 
breeze.  The  sun  fairly  beat  from  the  blue,  dark- 
ling sky;  directly  in  front  of  us,  on  the  other 
shore,  a  field  of  oats  gleamed  yellow,  overgrown 
here  and  there  with  wormwood,  and  not  a  single 
ear  of  the  grain  stirred.  A  little  lower  down,  a 
peasant's  horse  was  standing  in  the  river  up  to 
his  knees,  and  lazily  swishing  himself  with  his 
wet  tail;  no^\'  and  then,  a  large  fish  swam  up 
under  an  overhanging  bush,  emitted  a  bubble, 

'  That  is,  liad  him  inacle  a  soldier  for  the  long  term  then 
obligatory.  The  iiair  was  shaved  to  mark  the  man  and  prevent 
desertion. — Traxslator. 

60 


THE    RASPBERRY   WATER 

and  gently  sank  to  the  bottom,  leaving  behind 
him  a  faint  surge.  The  grasshoppers  were  shrill- 
ing in  the  rusty  grass;  the  quails  were  calling  in 
a  reluctant  sort  of  way;  hawks  floated  above  the 
fields,  and  frequently  came  to  a  standstill,  swiftly 
fluttering  their  wings,  and  spreading  out  their 
tails  like  a  fan.  We  sat  motionless,  overwhelmed 
with  the  heat.  All  at  once,  behind  us,  in  the 
ravine,  a  noise  resounded:  some  one  was  descend- 
ing to  the  spring.  I  looked  round,  and  beheld 
a  peasant  about  fifty  years  of  age,  dusty,  in  shirt 
and  bark-slippers,  with  a  ^ilaited  birch-bark  wallet 
and  a  long  coat  thrown  over  his  shoulders.  He 
approached  the  spring,  drank  eagerly,  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Eh,  Vlas?" — cried  The  Fog,  taking  a  look 
at  him: — "  good  day,  brother.  Whence  has  God 
brought  thee? " 

"  Good  day,  Mikhailo  Savelitch," — said  the 
peasant,  advancing  toward  us, — "  from  afar." 

"Where  hast  thou  been?" — The  Fog  asked 
him. 

"  I  have  been  to  Moscow,  to  the  master." 

"AVhy?" 

"  I  went  to  petition  him." 

"  To  petition  him  about  what?  " 

"  Why,  that  he  would  reduce  my  quit-rent,  or 
put  me  on  husbandry-service,  or  send  me  for  set- 
tlement elsewhere,  perhaj)s.  .  .  .  ]My  son  is  dead 
— so  I  can't  manage  it  now  alone." 

61 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"Is  thv  son  dead?  " 

"  Yes.  The  deceased," — added  the  peasant, 
after  a  brief  silence: — "  hved  in  ^Moscow,  as  a 
cabman;  I  must  confess  that  he  paid  my  quit- 
rent." 

"  But  is  it  possible  that  thou  art  on  quit-rent 
now  J 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  thy  master  say?  " 

"  What  did  the  master  sav  ?  He  drove  me  off ! 
*  How  darest  thou  come  straight  to  me,'  says  he; 
'  thou  art  bound  to  report  first  to  the  steward 
....  and  where  am  I  to  transfer  thee  for  set- 
tlement? Do  thou  first,'  says  he,  '  pay  up  thine 
arrears.'     He  was  thoroughly  angry." 

"  Well,  and  so  thou  hast  come  back?  " 

"  So  I  have  come  home.  I  should  have  liked 
to  find  out  whether  the  deceased  had  left  any 
goods  behind  him,  but  I  could  n't  get  a  straight 
answer.  I  says  to  his  employer,  says  I :  '  I  'm 
Philip's  father;  '  and  he  saj's  to  me:  '  How  do  I 
know  that? — And  thy  son  left  nothing,'  says 
he;  '  he  's  in  debt  to  me,  to  boot.'  Well,  and  so 
I  went  mv  wav." 

The  peasant  told  us  all  this  with  a  grin,  as 
though  it  were  a  question  of  some  one  else;  but 
a  tear  welled  up  in  his  small,  puckered-up  eyes, 
and  his  lips  quivered. 

Art  thou  going  liome  now?  " 

Why,   where   else   should   I   be  going?    Of 

62 


THE    RASPBERRY    WATER 

course,  I  'm  going  home.  INIy  wife  must  be 
whistling  into  lier  fist  now  with  hunger,  1  think." 

"  But  tliou  miglitcst  .  .  .  knowest  thou  .  .  ."  be- 
gan Styopushka  suddenly, — then  grew  confused, 
stopped  short,  and  began  to  rummage  in  the  pot. 

"  And  shalt  thou  go  to  the  steward?  " — went 
on  The  Fog,  glancing  at  Styopa  not  without  sur- 
prise. 

"  AVhy  should  I  go  to  him?  ....  I  'm  in  ar- 
rears, anyway.  INIy  son  was  ailing  for  about  a 
year  before  he  died,  so  that  he  did  not  pay  even 
his  own  quit-rent.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  care:  there 
is  nothing  to  be  got  from  me.  .  .  .  Be  as  crafty 
as  you  will  here,  brother, — 't  is  in  vain :  mv  head 
is  not  responsible!"  The  peasant  broke  into  a 
laugh.  "  Kintilyan  Semyonitch  may  worry  over 
it  as  he  will  .  .  .  .but  .  .  .  ." 

Again  Vlas  laughed. 

"Well,  that's  bad,  brother  Vlas,"— articu- 
lated The  Fog,  pausing  between  his  words. 

"  How  is  it  bad?    No "     Vlas's  voice 

broke.  "  How  hot  it  is!  " — he  went  on,  mopping 
his  brow  with  his  sleeve. 

"  Who  is  your  master?  " — I  inquired. 

"  Count  *  *  *,  Valerian  Petrovitch." 

"The  son  of  Piotr  Ilitch?  " 

"  Yes,  the  son  of  Piotr  Ilitch," — replied  The 
Fog.  "  The  deceased  Piotr  Ilitch  allotted  Vlas's 
village  to  him  during  his  lifetime." 

"Is  the  Count  well?" 

63 


ME:srOTT^S    OF    A    SPORTS:\rAN 


Yes,      thank      God," — respoi  ukd      Vlas. — 

Handsome  as  steel,  his  face  is  as  though  it 
were  stuffed  with  fat." 

"  See  there,  dear  httle  father," — continued 
The  Fog,  turning  to  me: — "  it  would  be  all  right 
near  IMoscow,  but  he  has  put  him  on  quit-rent 
here." 

"  But  at  how  much  a  houseliold?  " 

"  Ninety-five  rubles  a  household,  ' — muttered 
Vlas. 

"Well,  there  now,  you  see;  and  there's  only 
the  littlest  bit  of  ground,  because  't  is  all  the 
master's  forest." 

"  And  the}'  say  he  has  sold  that," — remarked 
the  peasant. 

"  Well,  there  now,  you  see  ....  Styopa,  give 

me  a  worm Hey,  Styopa?    What 's  the 

matter  with  thee?  hast  thou  fallen  asleep?" 

Styopushka  started.  The  peasant  sat  down 
beside  us.  Again  we  maintained  silence  for 
a  while.  On  the  other  shore,  some  one  started  up 
a  song,  and  such  a  mournful  one!  .  .  .  INIy  poor 
Vlas  grew  dejected 

Half  an  hour  later  we  parted  company. 


64 


IV 

THE  DISTKICT  DOCTOR 

One  day,  in  aiitiiinii,  on  my  way  home  from  the 
distant  fields,  I  eaught  cold,  and  was  taken  ill. 
Fortunately,  the  fever  ()\'ertook  me  in  the  coun- 
ty-town, in  the  hotel.  1  seiit  for  the  doctor.  Half 
an  hour  later,  the  district  physician  made  his  ap- 
pearance, a  man  of  short  stature,  thin  and  hlack- 
haired.  He  prescribed  for  me  the  customary 
sudorific,  ordered  the  application  of  mustard- 
plasters,  very  deftly  tucked  my  five-ruble 
bank-note  under  his  cufF, — but  emitted  a  dry 
cough  and  glanced  aside  as  he  did  so, — and  was 
on  the  very  verge  of  going  off  about  his  own 
affairs,  but  somehow  got  to  talking  and  re- 
mained. The  fever  oppressed  me;  I  foresaw  a 
sleepless  night,  and  was  glad  to  chat  with  the 
kindly  man.  Tea  was  served.  IVIy  doctor  began 
to  talk.  He  was  far  from  a  stupid  young  fellow, 
and  expressed  himself  vigorously  and  quite  enter- 
tainingly. Strange  things  happen  in  the  world: 
you  may  live  a  long  time,  and  on  friendly  terms, 
with  one  man,  and  never  once  speak  frankly  from 
your  soul  with  him;  witli  another  you  hardly 
manage    to    make    ac(|uaintance — and    behold: 

65 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPOKTSMAX 

either  you  have  })lurted  out  to  him  your  most 
secret  thoughts,  as  though  you  were  at  confes- 
sion, or  he  has  blurted  out  his  to  vou.  1  know 
not  how  I  won  the  confidence  of  mv  new 
friend, — only,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  as  the 
saying  is,  he  "  took  "  and  told  me  about  a  rather 
remarkable  occurrence;  and  now  I  am  going  to 
impart  his  narrative  to  the  indulgent  reader.  I 
shall  endeavour  to  express  myself  in  the  physi- 
cian's words. 

"  You  are  not  acquainted," — he  began,  in  a 
weak  and  quavering  voice  (such  is  the  effect 
of  unadulterated  Bervozoff  snufF)  : — "vou  are 
not  acquainted  with  the  judge  here,  Pavel  Lii- 

kitch  ]\Iyloft',   are  you? You   are  not? 

Well,   never  mind."      (He   cleared  his 

throat  and  wiped  his  eyes.)  "  AVell,  then,  please 
to  observe  that  the  affair  happened^ — to  be  accu- 
rate— during  the  Great  Fast,  in  the  very  height 
of  the  thaw.  I  was  sitting  with  him  at  his  house, 
our  judge's,  and  playing  preference.  Our  judge 
is  a  nice  man,  and  fond  of  playing  preference. 
All  of  a  sudden  "  (my  doctor  frequently  em- 
j^loyed  that  expression:  "  all  of  a  sudden  ")  "  I 
am  told:  'A  man  is  asking  for  you.'  'What 
does  he  want  if ' — said  I.  Thev  tell  me:  '  He  has 
brought  a  note — it  must  be  from  a  sick  person.' 
— '  Give    me    the    note,' — said    I.      And    so    it 

proved  to  be  iiom  a  sick  person W^ell, 

very  good, — that 's  our  bread  and  butter,  you  un- 

66 


TTTK   DTSTKTCT   DOCTOR 

(lerstand And  this  was  what  was  the 

matter:  the  person  who  wrote  to  me  was  a 
hmded  proprietress,  a  widow;  she  says:  'My 
(huii>liter  is  dying,  come  for  the  sake  of  our  Tjord 
God,  and  horses  have  been  sent  for  you.'  A  Veil, 
and  all  that  is  of  no  consecpience.  .  »  .  .  But  she 
lives  twenty  versts  from  town,  night  is  falling, 
and  the  roads  are  such,  that — faugh!  And  she 
herself  was  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  I  could  n't 
expect  to  receive  more  than  two  rubles,^  and  even 
that  much  was  doubtful;  and,  in  all  probability, 
I  should  be  obliged  to  take  a  bolt  of  crash-linen 
and  some  scraps  or  other.  However,  you  under- 
stand, duty  before  everything.  All  of  a  sudden, 
I  hand  over  my  cards  to  Kalliopin,  and  set  off 
homeward.  I  look:  a  wretched  little  peasant- 
cart  is  standing  in  front  of  my  porch;  peasant- 
horses, — pot-bellied,  extremely  pot-bellied, — the 
hair  on  them  a  regular  matted  felt;  and  the 
coachman  is  sitting  hatless,  by  way  of  respect. 
Well,  thinks  I  to  mvself :  evidently,  brother,  thy 

masters    don't    eat    off    gold You    are 

pleased  to  laugh,  but  I  can  tell  you  a  poor  man, 
like  myself,  takes  everything  into  consideration. 
....  If  the  coachman  sits  like  a  prince,  and 
doesn't  doff  his  cap,  and  grins  in  his  beard  to 

^  The  doctor's  fee,  as  fixed  bj^  law,  in  Russia,  is  absurdly  small. 
Every  one,  tliercforo,  gives  what  he  sees  fit — certain  prices  being 
only  tacitly  understood  as  projjcr  for  certain  men.  Tlie  doctor 
is  sujjposed  to  accept  wliat  is  ottered,  and  it  is  contrary  to  eti- 
quette for  him  to  remonstrate  against  the  sum. — Thanslator. 

67 


ME^rOTl^S    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

boot,  and  waggles  his  whip,  you  may  het  boldly 
on  getting  a  couple  of  bank-bills!  But,  in  this 
case,  I  see  that  the  matter  does  not  smack  of  tliat. 
However,  thought  1  to  myself,  it  can't  be  helped: 
duty  before  everything.  I  catch  up  the  most  in- 
dispensable remedies,  and  set  out.  Will  you  be- 
lieve it,  we  barely  managed  to  drag  ourselves 
to  our  goal.  Tlie  road  was  hellish :  brooks,  snow, 
mud,  water-washed  gullies;  for,  all  of  a  sudden, 
a  dam  had  burst— alas!  Notwithstanding,  I  got 
there.  The  house  is  tiny,  with  a  straw-thatched 
roof.  The  windows  are  illuminated:  which  sig- 
nifies, that  they  are  expecting  me.  ^Vn  old 
woman  comes  out  to  receive  me, — such  a  dignified 
old  woman,  in  a  mob-cap;  '  Save  her,'  says  she, 
'  she  is  dying.'     '  Pray  don't  worry,'   I   say  to 

her 'Where     is     the     patient?' — 

'Here,  please  come  this  way.'— I  look:  'tis  a 
neat  little  room,  in  the  corner  a  shrine-lamp,  on 
the  bed  a  girl  of  twenty  years,  unconscious.  She 
is  fairly  burning  with  heat,  she  breathes  heavily: 
— 't  is  fever.  There  are  two  other  young  girls 
present,  her  sisters, — thoroughly  frightened,  in 
tears. — '  See  there,'  say  they,  '  yesterday  she  was 
])erfectly  well,  and  ate  with  appetite:  this  morn- 
ing she  complained  of  her  head,  and  toward 
evening,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  got  into  this  condi- 
tion.' ....  I  said  again:  'Pray  don't  worry,' 
— you  know,  the  doctor  is  bound  to  say  that, — 
and  set  to  work.     I  let  blood,  ordered  the  appli- 

68 


THE    DISTRICT    DOCTOR 

cation  of  niiistanl-phisters,  pi-cscribed  a  potion. 
Ill  tlie  iiicaiitiiiie,  I  looked  and  looked  at  her,  and 
do  you  know: — well,  upon  my  word,  I  never 
before  had  seen  such  a  face  ....  a  beauty,  in 
one  word!   I  fairly  go  to  pieces  with  compassion. 

Such     pleasing     features,     eyes Well, 

thank  God,  she  quieted  down;  the  perspiration 
broke  out,  she  seemed  to  regain  consciousness, 
cast  a  glance  around  her,  smiled,  passed  her  hand 

over  her  face Her  sisters  bent  over  her, 

and  inquired:  'What  ails  thee?' — 'Nothing,' — 

says  she,  and  turned  away I  look  .  .  and 

lo,  she  has  fallen  asleep.  '  Well,'  I  say,  '  now  the 
patient  must  be  left  in  peace.'  So  we  all  went 
out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe;  only  the  maid  re- 
mained, in  case  she  should  be  needed!  And  in 
the  drawing-room,  the  samovar  was  already 
standing  on  the  table,  and  there  was  Jamaica 
rum  also:  in  our  business,  we  cannot  get  along 
without  it.  They  gave  me  tea,  and  begged  me 
to  spend  the  night  there.  .  •  •  I  consented :  what 
was  the  use  of  going  away  now !  The  old  woman 
kept  moaning.  '  What 's  the  matter  with  you? ' 
said  I :  '  she  '11  live,  pray  do  not  feel  uneasy,  and 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  some  rest  your- 
self: it's  two  o'clock.' — 'But  will  you  give 
orders  tliat  I  am  to  be  awakened,  if  anything 
should  liappen?'— 'I  will,  I  will.'— The  old 
woman  went  off,  and  the  girls  also  betook  them- 
selves to  their  own  room;  they  made  up  a  bed 

69 


ME.MOIKS   OF   xV   SPORTSMxVX 

for  me  in  tlie  drawing-room.  So  I  lay  down, — 
but  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep, — and  no  wonder!  I 
seemed  to  be  fretting  over  something.  1  could  n't 
get  my  sick  girl  out  of  my  mind.  At  last,  I 
could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  got  up :  1  thought :  '  1  '11  go  and  see  how  the  pa- 
tient is  getting  along.'  Her  bedroom  adjoined 
the  drawing-room.  AW'll,  1  rose,  and  opened  the 
door  softly, — and  mv  heart  began  to  beat  vio- 
lently.  I  took  a  look:  the  maid  was  fast  asleep, 
with  her  jiiouth  open,  and  even  snoring,  the  beast! 
and  the  sick  girl  was  lying  with  lier  face  toward 
me,  and  throwing  her  arms  about,  the  poor  thing! 
I  went  up  to  her.  .  .  All  of  a  sudden,  she  opened 

her  eyes,  and  fixed  them  on  me ! '  Who  is 

this?  Wilt)  is  this?' — I  was  disconcerted. — 'Don't 
be  alarmed,  madam,'  said  I :  '  I  'm  the  doctor,  I 
have  come  to  see  how  you  are  feeling.' — '  You 

are  the  doctor? ' — '  Yes,  the  doctor Your 

mamma  sent  to  the  town  for  me;  we  have  bled 
you,  madam;  now,  please  to  lie  quiet,  and  in  a 
couple  of  days,  God  willing,  we  11  have  you  on 
your  feet  again.' — '  Akh,  yes,  yes,  doctor,  don't 
let  me  die  ....  please,  please  don't ! ' — '  What 
makes  vou  sav  that,  God  bless  vou ! ' — '  Her 
fever  is  starting  up  again,'  1  thought  to  myself. 
I  felt  her  pulse:  it  was  the  fever,  sure  enough. 
She  looked  at  me, — then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she 
seized  my  liand. — '  I  '11  tell  you  why  I  don't  want 
to  die,  I  '11  tell  you,  I  '11  tell  you  ....   now  we 

70 


THE   DISTINCT   DOCTOR 

are  alone ;  only,  if  you  please,  you  must  n't  let 
anybody  know  ....  listen! '  ....  I  bent  down: 
she  brought  her  lips  to  my  very  ear,  her  hair 
swept  my  cheek, — 1  confess  that  my  head  reeled, 
— and  began  to  whisper 1  could  under- 
stand nothing Akh,  why,  she  was  de- 
lirious  She    whispered    and    whispered, 

and  very  rapidly  at  that,  and  not  in  Russian,  fin- 
ished, shuddered,  dropped  her  head  back  on  the 
pillow,  and  menaced  me  with  her  finger. — '  See 
that  you  tell  no  one,  doctor.'  .  .  .  Somehow  or 
other,  I  contrived  to  soothe  her,  gave  her  a  drink, 
waked  up  the  maid,  and  left  the  room." 

Here  the  doctor  took  snufF  frantically,  and 
grew  torpid  for  a  moment. 

"  But,  contrary  to  my  expectation," — he  went 
on, — "  the  patient  was  no  better  on  the  follow- 
ing day.  I  cogitated,  and  cogitated,  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  I  decided  to  remain,  although  other  pa- 
tients were  expecting  me.  .  .  .  But,  you  know, 
that  cannot  be  neglected:  your  practice  suffers 
from  it.  But,  in  the  first  place,  the  sick  girl  was, 
really,  in  a  desperate  condition;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  I  must  tell  the  truth,  I  felt  strongly 
attracted  to  her.  JNIoreover,  the  whole  family 
pleased  me.  Although  they  were  not  wealthy 
people,  yet  their  culture  was,  I  may  say,  rare. 
....  Their  father  had  been  a  learned  man,  a 
writer;  he  had  died  in  poverty,  of  course,  but 
had   managed   to   impart   a   splendid   education 

71 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

to  his  children;  he  had  also  left  behind  him 
many  books.  AVhether  it  was  because  I  worked 
so  zealously  over  the  sick  girl,  or  for  other 
reasons,  at  all  events,  1  venture  to  assert  that 
they  became  as  fond   of  me  as  though   I  had 

been    a    relative In    the    meantime,    the 

thaw  had  reduced  the  roads  to  a  frightful  con- 
dition: all  communications  were,  so  to  speak,  ut- 
terly cut  off.  .  .  .  The  sick  girl  did  iiot  get  well 
.  .  .  day  after  day,  day  after  day.  .  .  .  But  so, 
sir  ...  .  then,  sir  .  .  .  ."  (The  doctor  paused 
for  a  M'hile). — "  Really,  I  do  not  know  how  to 
state  it  to  j^ou,  sir  .  .  ."  (Again  he  took  snuff, 
grunted,  and  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  tea.)  "  I 
will  tell  you,  without  circumlocution, — my  pa- 
tient ....  anyhow  ....  well,  either  she  fell  in 
love  with  me or,  no,  she  did  n't  ex- 
actly fall  in  love  with  me  .  .  .  but,  anyw^ay  .  .  . 
really,  how^  shall  I  put  it?  .  .  ."  (The  doctor 
dropped  his  eyes,  and  flushed  crimson.) 

"No," — he  went  on  with  vivacity: — "she 
did  n't  fall  in  love  with  me!  One  must,  after  all, 
estimate  one's  self  at  one's  true  value.  She  was  a 
cultivated  girl,  clever,  well-read,  and  I  had  for- 
gotten even  my  Latin,  completely,  I  may  say. 
So  far  as  my  figure  is  concerned  "  (the  doctor 
surveyed  himself  with  a  smile),  "also,  I  have 
nothing  to  boast  of,  apparently.  But  the  Lord 
God  did  n't  distort  me  into  a  fool,  either:  I  won't 
call  white  black;  I  understand  a  thing  ov  two 

72 


THE   DISTRICT   DOCTOR 

myself.  For  exaniple,  1  uiulerstood  very  well 
indeed  that  Alexandra  Andreevna — her  name 
was  Alexandra  Andreevna — did  not  feel  love 
for  me,  but,  so  to  speak,  a  friendly  inelination, 
respect,  something  of  that  sort.  Although  she 
herself,  possibly,  was  mistaken  on  that  pointy  yet 
her  condition  was  such,  as  you  can  judge  for 

yourself However," — added  the  doctor, 

who  had  uttered  all  these  disjointed  speeches 
without  stopping  to  take  breath,  and  with  obvious 
embarrassment: — "  I  have  strayed  from  the  sub- 
ject a  bit,  1  think.  ...  So  you  will  not  under- 
stand anything but  here  now,  with  your 

permission,  I  '11  tell  you  the  whole  story  in  due 
order." 

He  finished  his  glass  of  tea,  and  began  to  talk 
in  a  more  composed  voice. 

"  Well,  then,  to  proceed,  sir.  My  patient  grew 
constantly  worse,  and  worse,  and  worse.  You 
are  not  a  medical  man,  my  dear  sir;  you  cannot 
comprehend  what  takes  place  in  the  soul  of  a 
fellow-being,  especially  when  he  first  begins  to 
divine  that  his  malady  is  conquering  him.  What 
becomes  of  his  self-confidence!  All  of  a  sudden, 
you  grow  inexpressibly  timid.  It  seems  to  you, 
that  you  have  forgotten  everything  you  ever 
knew,  and  that  the  patient  does  not  trust  you 
and  that  others  are  beginning  to  observe  that  you 
have  lost  your  wifs,  and  communicate  the  symp- 
toms to  you  umvillingly,  gaze  askance  at  yon, 

73 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPOUTS.MxVX 

whis2)er    tot^cther eh,    't  is    an   evil 

plight!  J^ut  there  certainly  ninst  be  a  remedy 
for  this  malady,  you  think,  if  you  could  only 
find  it.  Here  now,  is  n't  this  it?  You  try  it — no, 
that  's  not  it !  You  don't  ^wa  the  medicine  time 
to  act  properly  ....  now  you  grasp  at  this, 
now  at  that.  You  take  your  prescription-book, 
— it  certainly  must  be  there,  you  think.  To  tell 
the  truth,  you  sometimes  open  it  at  liaphazard: 

perchance  Fate,  you  think  to  yourself 

But,  in  the  meanwhile,  the  person  is  dying;  and 
some  other  2^hysician  might  have  saved  him.  A 
consultation  is  necessary,  you  say:  '  I  will  not 
assume  the  responsibility.'  xVnd  what  a  fool 
you  seem  under  such  circumstances!  Well,  and 
you  '11  leani  to  bear  it  patiently,  in  course  of  time 
you  won't  mind  it.  The  man  dies — it  is  no  fault 
of  yours:  you  have  followed  the  rules.  But 
there's  another  torturing  thing  about  it:  you 
behold  blind  confidence  in  you,  and  you  yourself 
feel  that  you  are  not  capable  of  helping.  Well 
then,  that  was  precisely  the  sort  of  confidence 
that  Alexandra  Andreevna's  whole  family  had 
in  me:— and  they  forgot  to  think  that  their 
daughter  was  in  danger.  I,  also,  on  my  side,  as- 
sured them  that  it  was  all  right,  while  my  soul 
sank  into  my  heels.  To  crown  the  calamity,  the 
thaw  and  breaking  up  of  the  roads  were  so  bad, 
that  the  coachman  ^vould  travel  whole  days  at 
a  time  in  quest  of  medicine.     And  I  never  left 

74 


THE   DISTRICT    DOCTOR 

tlie  sick-chamber,  1  could  n't  tear  myself  away;, 
you  know,  1  related  ridiculous  little  anecdotes, 
and  played  cards  with  her.  1  sat  up  all  night. 
]My  old  woman  thanked  me  with  tears;  but  1 
thought  to  myself:  '  I  don't  deserve  your  grati- 
tude.' I  will  confess  to  you  frankly, — there  's 
no  reason  why  I  should  dissimulate  now,- — ^I  had 
fallen  in  love  with  my  patient.  And  Alexandra 
Andreevna  had  become  attached  to  me:  she 
would  let  no  one  but  me  enter  the  room.  She 
woidd  begin  to  chat  with  me,  and  would  interro- 
gate me — where  I  had  studied,  how  I  lived,  who 
were  my  parents,  whom  did  I  visit?  And  I  felt 
that  she  ought  not  to  talk,  but  as  for  prohibiting 
her,  positively,  you  know,  I  could  n't  do  it.  I 
would  clutch  my  head : — '  What  art  thou  doing, 
thou  villain  ? ' — -But  then,  she  would  take  my 
hand,  and  hold  it,  and  gaze  at  me,  gaze  long,  very 
long,  turn  away,  sigh,  and  say:  '  How  kind  you 
are ! '  Her  hands  were  so  hot,  her  eyes  were  big 
and  languishing. — '  Yes,'  she  would  say, — '  you 
are  a  good  man,  you  are  not  like  our  neighbours 
.  .  .  no,  you  are  not  that  sort.  .  .  .  How  is 
it  that  I  have  never  known  vou  until  now ! ' 
— '  Calm  yourself,  Alexandra  Andreevna,' — I 
would  sav.  .  .  .  '  I  assure  vou,  I  feel  I  do  not 
know  how  I  have  merited  ....  only,  compose 
yourself,  for  God's  sake  ....  everything  will 
be  all  right,  you  will  get  well.' — And  yet,  I  must 
confess  to  you,"  added  the  doctor,  bending  for- 

75 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAX 

ward,  and  elevating  his  eyebrows:— "  tliat  they 
had  very  little  to  do  with  the  neighbours,  because 
the  lower  sort  were  not  their  ecjuals,  and  pride 
prevented  their  becoming  acquainted  with  the  rich 
ones.  As  I  liave  told  vou,  it  was  an  extremely 
cultured  family: — and,  so,  you  know,  I  felt  flat- 
tered. She  would  take  her  medicine  from  no 
hands  but  mine  .  .  .  she  would  sit  up  half-way, 
the  poor  girl,  with  my  assistance,  take  it,  and 
look  at  me  ....  and  my  heart  would  fairly 
throb.  But,  in  the  meantime,  she  grew  worse  and 
worse:  '  She  will  die,'  I  thought,  '  she  will  infal- 
libly die.'  Will  you  ])elieve  it,  I  felt  like  lying 
down  in  the  grave  myself:  but  her  mother  and 
sisters  were  w^atching,  and  looking  me  in  the  eye 
....  and  their  confidence  disappeared. 

'"What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter? '—' No- 
thing, ma'am ;  't  is  all  right,  ma'am ! ' — but  it 
wasn't  all  right,  I  had  merely  lost  my  head! 
Well,  sir,  one  night  I  was  sitting  alone  once 
more,  beside  the  sick  girl.  The  maid  was  sitting 
in  the  room  also,  and  snoring  with  all  her  might. 
.  .  .  Well,  there  w^as  no  use  in  being  hard  on  the 
unfortunate  maid:  she  w'as  harassed  enough. 
Alexandra  Andreevna  had  been  feeling  very 
badly  all  the  evening;  she  w^as  tortured  by  the 
fever.  She  kept  tossing  herself  about  clear  up 
to  midnight;  at  last,  she  seemed  to  fall  asleep; 
at  all  events,  she  did  not  stir,  but  lay  quietly. 
The  shrine-lamp  was  burning  in   front   of  the 

76 


TUK    DISTRICT    DOCTOR 

holy  picture  in  tiic  corner.  1  was  sitting,  you 
know,  with  drooping  head,  and  do/ing  also.  All 
of  a  sudden,  I  felt  exactly  as  though  some  one 
had  nudged  nie  in  the  ribs.     1  turned  I'ound.   .   . 

0  Lord,  my  (xod!  Alexandra  Andreevna  was 

staring  at  me  with  all  her  eyes her  lips 

parted,  her  cheeks  fairly  blazing. — '  What  is  the 
matter  \\'ith  you  ? '— '  Doctor,  surely  I  am  dy- 
ing? ' — '  Cxod  forbid!  ' — '  No,  doctor,  no;  please 
don't  tell  me  that  I  shall  recover  ....  don't  tell 
me  ...  if  you  only  knew  .  .  .  listen,  for  God's 
sake,  don't  conceal  my  condition  from  me ! ' — and 
she  breathed  very  fast. — '  If  I  know  for  certain 
that  I  must  die  ....  I  will  tell  you  everything, 
everything! ' — '  For  heaven's  sake,  Alexandra 
Andreevna! ' — '  Listen,  I  have  n't  been  asleep  at 
all,  you  see;  I  've  been  watching  you  this  long- 
while  ....  for  God's  sake  ...  I  believe  in 
you,  you  are  a  kind  man,  you  are  an  honest  man ; 

1  adjure  you,  by  all  that  is  holy  on  earth — tell 
me  the  truth!  If  you  only  knew  how  important 
it  is  to  me.  .  .  Doctor,  tell  me,  for  God's  sake, 
am  I  in  danger? ' — '  What  shall  I  say  to  you,  Al- 
exandra Andreevna,  for  mercy's  sake ! ' — '  For 
God's  sake,  I  beseech  you ! ' — '  I  cannot  conceal 
from  you,  Alexandra  Andreevna,  the  fact  that 
you  really  are  in  danger,  but  God  is  merciful 

'— '  I  shall  die,  I  shall  die! '  .  .  .  .  And 

she  seemed  to  be  glad,  her  face  became  so  cheer- 
ful; I  was  frightened. — 'But  don't  be  afraid, 

77 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

don't  be  afraid,  death  does  not  terrify  me  in  the 
least.' — All  of  a  sudden,  she  raised  herself  up, 
and  propped  herself  on  her  elbow. — '  Now  .... 
well,  now  I  can  tell  you  that  I  am  grateful  to 
you  with  all  my  soul,  that  you  are  a  kind,  good 
man,  that  I  love  you.'  ....  I  stared  at  her  like 
a  crazy  man;  dread  fell  upon  me,  you  know.  .  . 
'  Do  you  hear? — I  love  you! '....'  Alexandra 
Andreevna,  how  liave  1  deserved  this!' — 'No, 
no,  you  don't  understand  me  ....  thou  dost 
not  understand  me.'  ....  And  all  of  a  sudden, 
she  stretched  out  her  arms,  clasped  my  head,  and 
kissed  me.  .  .  .  AVill  you  believe  it,  I  came  near 

shrieking  aloud I   flung  myself  on  my 

knees,  and  hid  my  head  in  the  pillow.  She  was 
silent;  her  fingers  trembled  on  my  hair;  I  heard 
her  weeping.  I  began  to  comfort  her,  to  reassure 
her  ....  to  tell  the  truth,  I  really  do  not  know 
what  I  said  to  her. — '  You  will  waken  the  maid, 
Alexandra  Andreevna,'  I  said  to  her.  .  .  '  I 
thank  you  ....  believe  me  ....  calm  your- 
self.'^ — -'  Yes,  enough,  enough,'  she  repeated. 
'  God  be  with  them  all;  well,  they  will  wake;  well, 
they  will  come — it  makes  no  difference:  for  I 

shall  die But  why  art  thou  timid,  what 

dost  thou  fear?  raise  thy  head.  .  .  .  Can  it  be 
myself  ?  ....  in  that  case,  forgive  me,' — '  Alex- 
andra Andreevna,  what  are  you  saying?  .... 
I  love  you,  Alexandra  Andreevna.' — She  looked 
me  straight   in  the  eye,  and  opened  her  arms. 

78 


THE   DISTRICT   DOCTOR 

— '  Then  embrace  me.'  .  .  I  will  tell  you  frankly: 
1  don't  understand  why  I  did  not  go  crazy  that 
night.  1  was  conscious  that  my  patient  was  kill- 
ing herself;  I  saw  that  she  was  not  quite  clear 
in  lier  head;  I  understood,  also,  that  had  she  not 
tiiought  herself  on  the  brink  of  death,  she  would 
not  have  thought  of  me;  for,  you  may  say 
what  you  like,  't  is  a  terrible  thing,  all  the  same, 
to  die  at  the  age  of  twenty,  without  having  loved 
any  one:  that  is  what  was  tormenting  her,  you 
see ;  that  is  why  she,  in  her  despair,  clutched  even 
at  me, — do  you  understand  now?  But  she  did  not 
release  me  from  her  arms. — '  Spare  me,  Alexan- 
dra Andreevna,  and  spare  yourself  also,'  I  said. 
— '  Why  should  I? '  she  said.  '  For  I  must  die, 
you  know.'  .  .  .  She  kept  repeating  this  inces- 
santly.— '  See  here,  now;  if  I  knew  that  I  would 
recover,  and  become  an  honest  young  lady  again, 
I  should  be  ashamed,  actually  ashamed  .... 
but  as  it  is,  what  does  it  matter? ' — '  But  who 
told  you  that  you  were  going  to  die? ' — '  Eh,  no, 
enough  of  that,  thou  canst  not  deceive  me,  thou 
dost  not  know  how  to  lie;  look  at  thyself.' — '  You 
will  live,  Alexandra  Andreevna ;  I  will  cure  you. 
We  will  ask  your  mother's  blessing  on  our  mar- 
riage. \  .  .  We  will  unite  ourselves  in  the  bonds. 
.  .  We  shall  be  happy.' — '  No,  no,  I  have  taken 
your  word  for  it,  I  must  die  ....  thou  hast  prom- 
ised me  .  .  .  thou  hast  told  me  so.'  .  .  .  This  was 
bitter  to  me,  bitter  for  many  reasons.     And  you 

79 


.AIE.AIOIRS   OF   A   SPORTS^MxVN 

can  j  11(1^0  for  yourself,  what  trifling  things  hap- 
pen: they  seem  to  be  nothing,  yet  they  hurt.  She 
took  it  into  her  head  to  ask  nie  \\hat  my  name 
was, — not  my  surname,  hut  my  baptismal  name. 
My  ill-luck  decreed  that  it  should  be  Trifon. 
Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir;  Trifon,  Trifon  Ivanovitch. 
Everybody  in  the  house  addressed  me  as  doctor. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  I  said :  '  Trifon,  mad- 
am.' She  narrowed  lier  eyes,  shook  her  liead,  and 
whispered  something  in  French, — okli,  yes,  and 
it  was  something  bad,  and  then  she  laughed,  and 
in  an  ugly  way  too.  A  Veil,  and  I  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  night  with  her  in  that  man- 
ner. In  the  morning,  I  left  the  room,  as  though 
I  had  been  a  madman;  I  went  into  her  room 
again  by  daylight,  after  tea.  ]My  God,  my  God! 
She  was  unrecognisable:  corpses  have  more  col- 
our when  they  are  laid  in  their  coffins.  I  swear 
to  you,  by  my  lionour,  T  do  not  understand  now,  * 
I  positively  do  not  understand,  how  1  survived 
that  torture.  Three  days,  three  niglits  more  did 
my  patient  linger  on  ...  .  and  what  nights 
they  were!  AVliat  was  there  that  she  did  not  say 
to  me!  ....  And,  on  tlie  last  night,  just  ima- 
gine,— I  was  sitting  beside  her,  and  beseeching 
one  thing  only  of  God :  '  Take  her  to  Thyself, 
as  speedily  as  may  be,  and  me  along  with  her.' 
.  .  .  All  of  a  sudden,  the  old  mother  bursts  into 

the  room I  had  already  told  her,  on  the 

preceding  day,  that  there  was  but  little  hope,  that 

80 


THE   DISTRICT   DOCTOR 

the  girl  was  in  a  bad  way,  and  that  it  wonld  not 
be  out  ol'  j)hice  to  send  lor  the  priest.  As  soon 
as  the  siek  girl  beheld  her  mother,  she  said: — 
'  Well,  now,  't  is  a  good  thing  thou  hast  come 
.  .  .  look  at  us,  we  love  each  other,  we  have  given 
t^'aeli  other  our  promise.' — '  What  does  she  mean, 
doctor,  what  does  she  mean  ? ' — I  turned  deathly 
pale. — '  She  's  delirious,  ma'am,'  said  I ;  '  't  is  the 
fever  heat.'  .  .  But  the  girl  said :  '  Enough  of 
that,  enough  of  that,  thou  hast  just  said  some- 
thing entirely  different  to  me,  and  hast  accepted 
a  ring  from  me AVhy  dost  thou  dissimu- 
late? My  mother  is  kind,  she  will  forgive,  she  will 
understand;  but  I  am  dying — I  have  no  object 
in  lying;  give  me  thy  hand.'  ....  I  sprang  up 
and  lied  from  the  room.  The  old  woman,  of 
course,  guessed  how  things  stood. 

"  But  I  will  not  weary  you,  and  I  must  admit 
that  it  is  painful  to  me  to  recall  all  this.  My 
patient  died  on  the  following  day.  The  kingdom 
of  heaven  be  hers!"  added  the  doctor  hastily, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Before  she  died,  she  asked  her 
family  to  leave  the  room,  and  leave  me  alone  with 
her. — '  Forgive  me,' — she  said, — '  perhaps  I  am 

culpable  in  your  sight my  illness  .  .  . 

but,  believe  me,  I  have  never  loved  any  one  more 
than  I  have  loved  you  ....  do  not  forget  me 
....  take  care  of  my  ring.' " 

The  doctor  turned  away ;  I  took  his  hand. 

"  Ekh,"— he  said,—"  let 's  talk  of  something 

81 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

else,  or  would  iTt  yoii  like  to  play  preference  for 
a  while?  ^Nleii  like  us,  you  know,  ought  not  to 
yield  to  such  lofty  sentiments.  All  we  fellows 
have  to  think  of  is:  how  to  keep  the  children  from 
squalling,  and  our  wiyes  from  scolding.  For 
since  then,  you  see,  I  haye  managed  to  contract 
a  legal  marriage,  as  the  saying  is.  .  .  Of  course 
.  .  .  .  I  took  a  merchant's  daughter:  she  had 
seyen  thousand  ruhles  of  dowry.  Her  name  is 
Akulina;  just  a  match  for  Trifon.  She's  a 
yixen,  I  must  tell  you ;  hut,  luckily,  she  sleeps  all 
day.  .  .  But  how  ahout  that  game  of  prefer- 
ence? " 

We  sat  down  to  play  preference,  for  kopek 
stakes.  Trifon  lyanitch  won  t^^'o  rubles  and  a 
half  from  me — and  went  away  late,  greatly 
elated  with  his  yictory. 


82 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  RADILOFF 

In  autuiiiii,  the  woodcock  frequently  take  up 
•their  stand  in  ancient  hnden  parks.  We  have  a 
good  many  such  parks  in  the  Government  of 
Orel.  Our  great-grandfathers,  in  selecting  resi- 
dence sites,  invariahly  laid  out  a  couple  of  desya- 
tinas  of  good  land  in  a  fruit-orchard,  with  alleys 
of  linden-trees.  During  the  last  fifty — at  the 
most,  seventy — years,  these  farms,  these  "  nohle- 
men's  nests,"  have  been  gradually  disappearing 
from  the  face  of  the  earth;  their  manors  have 
rotted  away  or  have  been  sold  for  removal,  the 
stone  offices  have  become  converted  into  heaps 
of  ruins,  the  ajjple-trees  have  died  out  and  gone 
for  firewood,  the  fences  and  wattled  hedges  have 
been  annihilated.  Only  the  lindens  have  thriven 
gloriously  as  of  yore,  and  now,  surrounded  by 
tilled  fields,  proclaim  to  our  volatile  race  "  our 
fathers  and  brethren  departed  this  life."  ^  A 
most    beautiful    tree    is    such    an    aged    linden. 

'A  quotation  from  the  "  aiifiinciited  litany"  in  the  services  of 
the  Eastern  Catholic  Church;  "  I'urtiierniore,  we  pray  for  ...  . 
all  our  devout  fathers  and  brethren  departed  this  life  before  us. 
Orthodox  believers,  who  here,  and  in  all  the  world,  lie  asleep  in 
the  Lord." — Translatok. 

83 


ME.MUiKh   OF   A   SrOKTS.MAN 

Even   the  ruthless  axe  of  the  Russian 

peasant  spares  it.  Its  leaves  are  small,  its  mighty 
boughs  spread  out  widely  in  all  direetions,  be- 
neath them  reigns  eternal  shadow. 

One  day,  as  1  was  roving  with  Ermolai  over 
the  fields  in  quest  of  partridges,  1  espied  on  one 
side  an  abandoned  park,  and  directed  my  foot- 
steps thither.  No  sooner  had  1  entered  the  edge 
of  the  grove  than  a  woodcock  rose  with  a  whir 
from  the  bushes.  1  fired,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment a  cry  rang  out  a  few  paces  from  me:  the 
frightened  face  of  a  young  girl  peered  forth  from 
behind  the  trees,  and  immediatelv  vanished.  Er- 
molai  rushed  up  to  me. — "  Why  do  you  shoot 
here?    A  landed  proprietor  lives  here." 

Before  I  could  answer  him,  before  my  dog, 
with  noble  dignity,  could  fetch  me  the  bird  1  had 
killed,  hasty  footsteps  made  themselves  audible, 
and  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  with  moustaches, 
emerged  from  the  grove,  and  halted  in  front  of 
me,  with  an  aspect  of  displeasure.  I  made  my 
excuses  as  best  I  might,  mentioned  my  name,  and 
offered  him  the  bird  which  had  been  shot  on  his 
domain. 

"  Very  well," — he  said  to  me,  with  a  smile,  "  I 
will  accept  your  game,  but  only  on  one  condi- 
tion: that  you  will  stay  to  dinner  with  us." 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  greatly  pleased 
at  his  suggestion,  but  it  was  impossible  to  refuse. 

"  I  am  the  proprietor  who  lives  here,  and  your 

S4< 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  RADIT.OTF 

neighbour,  Kadilofi';  pcrlui])s  you  have  lieard  of 
me," — went  on  my  new  acciuaintance: — "this  is 
Sun(hiy,  and  my  dinner  ought  to  be  fairly  decent, 
otherwise  I  would  not  have  invited  you." 

I  made  the  sort  of  reply  which  is  customary 
on  such  occasions,  and  started  to  follow  him. 
The  recently  cleaned  path  soon  led  us  out  of  the 
linden  grove;  we  entered  the  kitchen-garden. 
Among  the  aged  apple-trees  and  overgrown 
gooseberry  bushes  gleamed  round,  pale-green 
heads  of  cabbage;  hop-vines  garlanded  the  tall 
poles  in  festoons ;  dark-brown  sticks  rose  in  dense 
array  from  the  beds,  entangled  with  dried  pea- 
vines  ;  huge,  flat  squashes  seemed  to  be  wallowing 
on  the  ground;  cucumbers  gleamed  yellow  from 
beneath  their  dusty,  angular  leaves;  along  the 
wattled  fence  tall  nettles  rocked  to  and  fro;  in 
two  or  three  places  Tatar  honeysuckle,  elder- 
trees,  and  sweet-briar  grew  in  masses, — the  re- 
mains of  bygone  "  flower-plots."  By  the  side  of 
a  small  fish-pond,  filled  with  reddish  and  slimy 
water,  a  well  was  visible,  surrounded  by  puddles. 
Ducks  were  busily  splashing  and  waddling  in 
these  puddles;  a  dog,  trembling  all  over  and  with 
eyes  screwed  up,  was  gnawing  a  bone  in  the  open 
glade;  a  piebald  cow  was  nipping  idly  at  the 
grass  there,  now  and  then  flirting  her  tail  over 
her  gaunt  back.  The  path  swerved  aside;  from 
behind  thick  willows  and  birches,  there  peeped 
forth  at  us  a  small,  aged  grey  house,  with  a  board 

85 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

roof  and  a  crooked  porch.  Radilofi'  halted. — 
"  By  the  wa}^" — he  said  good-naturedly,  look- 
ing me  square  in  the  face: — "  Now  1  come  to 
think  of  it;  perhaps  you  don't  want  to  enter  my 
house  at  all;  in  that  case " 

I  did  not  give  him  an  opportunity  to  finish, 
and  assiu'ed  him  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  dine  with  him. 

"  Well,  as  you  like." 

We  entered  the  house.  A  young  fellow  in  a 
long  kaftan  of  heavy  blue  cloth  met  us  on  the 
porch.  RadilofF  immediately  ordered  him  to 
give  Ermolai  some  vodka;  my  huntsman  made 
a  respectfid  obeisance  to  the  back  of  the  mag- 
nanimous giver.  From  the  anteroom,  papered 
with  divers  motley-hued  pictures  and  hung 
around  w'ith  cages,  we  entered  a  small  room — 
RadilofF's  study.  I  took  off  my  hunting  accou- 
trements, and  set  my  gun  in  one  corner;  the 
young  fellow  in  the  long-tailed  kaftan  bi'ushed 
me  off  with  alacrity. 

"  Come,  now  let  us  go  into  the  drawing-room," 
— said  Radiloff,  cordiallv: — "  I  will  introduce 
you  to  my  mother." 

I  followed  him.  In  the  drawing-room,  on  the 
central  divan,  sat  an  old  lady  of  short  stature,  in 
a  light-])rown  gown  and  a  white  mob-cap,  with 
a  kindly,  emaciated  face,  a  timid  and  mournful 
gaze. 

"  Here,  mother,  let  me  introduce  our  neigh- 
bour, *  *  *." 

86 


MY  NEiGlllU)Uli  RADILOFF 

The  old  lady  half-rose,  and  bowed  to  me,  witli- 
jut  letting  go  her  hold  on  a  coarse  worsted  reti- 
cule in  the  shape  of  a  bag. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  our  parts?  " — she 
asked,  in  a  weak  and  gentle  voice,  blinking  her 
eyes. 

"  No,  madam,  not  long." 

"  Do  you  intend  to  stay  here  long?  " 

"  Until  winter,  1  think." 

The  old  lady  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  And  here," — joined  in  Hadiloff,  pointing  to 
a  tall,  thin  man,  whom  1  had  not  noticed  on  en- 
tering the  drawing-room: — "this  is  Feodor  Mi- 
khyeitch.  .  .  .  Come  on,  Fedya,  show  the  visitor 
thine  art.  Why  hast  thou  tucked  thyself  into 
a  corner?  " 

Feodor  IMikhyeitch  immediately  rose  from  his 
chair,  picked  up  from  the  window-sill  a  miserable 
fiddle,  grasped  his  bow — not  by  the  end,  as  is  the 
proper  way,  but  by  the  middle,  leaned  the  fiddle 
against  his  breast,  shut  his  eyes,  and  began  to 
dance,  singing  a  song  and  sawing  away  on  the 
strings.  Judging  from  his  appearance,  he  was 
seventy  years  old;  a  long  nankeen  coat  dangled 
mournfully  against  his  thin,  bony  limbs.  He 
danced;  now  he  shook  his  small,  bald  head  in  a 
dashing  way,  again  he  twisted  it  about,  stretched 
out  his  sinewy  neck,  stamped  his  feet  up  and 
down  on  one  spot,  and  sometimes,  with  evident 
difficulty,  he  bent  his  knees.  His  toothless  mouth 
emitted  a  decrepit  voice.     IladilofF  must  have 

87 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSxMAN 

divined,  from  the  expression  of  my  face,  that 
Fedya's  "  art  "  did  not  afford  me  much  pleasure. 

"  Come,  very  good,  old  man,  that  will  do," — 
he  said: — "  thou  mayest  go  and  reward  thyself." 

Feodor  Mikhveitch  immechatelv  laid  the  fiddle 
on  the  \\  indow-sill,  bowed  first  to  me,  as  visitor, 
then  to  the  old  lady,  then  to  Radiloff,  and  left 
the  room. 

"  He  was  once  a  landed  proprietor  also," — 
pursued  my  new  friend:—"  and  a  rich  one,  but 
he  ruined  himself — so  now  he  lives  with  me  .... 
but  in  his  day  he  was  regarded  as  the  leading  gay 
rake  in  the  government;  he  carried  two  wives 
away  from  their  husbands,  he  kept  singers,  he 
himself  danced  and  sang  in  a  masterly  manner. 
.  .  .  But  wouldn't  you  like  some  vodka?  for 
dinner  is  already  on  the  table." 

A  young  girl,  the  one  of  whom  I  had  caught 
a  glimpse  in  the  garden,  entered  the  room. 

"  Ah,  here  's  Olya  too!  " — remarked  Radiloff, 
slightly  turning  away  his  head: — "I  beg  that 
you  will  love  and  favour  her.  .  .  .  Well,  let 's 
go  to  dinner." 

We  betook  ourselves  to  the  dining-room,  and 
seated  ourselves.  While  we  were  walking  from 
the  drawing-room  and  taking  our  seats,  Feodor 
Mikhyeitch,  whose  eyes  had  begun  to  beam  and 
his  nose  to  flush  a  little  red  from  liis  "  reward," 
sang:  "Let  the  thunder  of  victory  resound!" 
A  special  place  was  set  for  him  in  one  corner,  at 

88 


MY  NETCTT130ITR  RADILOFF 

a  little  tabic  witliout  a  cloth.  The  poor  old  man 
could  not  boast  of  cleanliness,  and  therefore  he 
was  always  kept  at  a  certain  distance  from  the 
company.  He  crossed  himself,  sighed,  and  be- 
gan to  eat  like  a  shark.  The  dinner  really  was 
far  from  bad,  and,  in  its  quality  of  a  Sunday  din- 
ner, did  not  lack  quivering  jelly  and  Spanish 
breezes  (patties).  At  table,  Radiloff,  who  had 
served  for  ten  years  in  an  army  infantry  regi- 
ment, and  had  been  in  Turkey,  began  to  tell 
stories.  I  listened  to  him  attentively,  and 
stealthily  watched  Olga.  She  was  not  very 
pretty;  but  the  calm  and  decided  expression  of 
her  face,  her  broad,  white  brow,  thick  hair,  and, 
in  particular,  her  brown  eyes,  small  but  sensible, 
clear  and  vivacious,  would  have  struck  any  one 
else  in  my  place.  She  seemed  to  watch  Radik)fF's 
every  word;  it  was  not  interest  but  passionate 
attention  which  was  depicted  on  her  countenance. 
RadilofF,  as  to  years,  might  have  been  her  father; 
he  called  her  "  thou,"  but  I  instantly  divined  that 
she  was  not  his  daughter.  In  the  course  of  the 
conversation  he  mentioned  his  deceased  wife — 
"  her  sister,"  he  added,  indicating  Olga.  She 
blushed  swiftly,  and  dropped  her  eyes.  Radiloff 
paused  for  a  while,  and  changed  the  subject. 
The  old  lady  never  uttered  a  word  throughout 
the  dinner,  ate  hardly  anything  herself,  and  did 
not  press  anything  on  me.  Her  features  ex- 
haled a  sort  of  timorous  and  hoj^eless  expecta- 

89 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

tion,  that  sadness  of  old  age  whieh  makes  the 
onlookers  heart  contract  painfully.  Toward  the 
end  of  the  dinner  Feodor  Mikhyeitch  undertook 
to  "  glorify  "  '  the  hosts  and  the  guest,  but  Radi- 
loff,  after  a  glance  at  me,  requested  him  to  hold 
his  tongue;  the  old  man  passed  his  hand  across 
his  mouth,  blinked  his  eves,  bowed  and  sat  down 
again,  but  this  time  on  the  very  edge  of  his  chair. 
After  dinner,  Radiloff  and  I  betook  ourselves 
to  his  study. 

In  people  who  are  powerfully  and  constantly 
occupied  by  a  single  thought  or  a  single  passion, 
there  is  perceptible  something  common  to  them 
all,  a  certain  external  resemblance  in  demeanour, 
however  different,  nevertheless,  may  be  their 
qualities,  capacities,  positions  in  the  world,  and 

^  The  "  Glory  "  is  reckoned  among  the  Christmas  songs,  or  carols, 
and  in  its  dignified  form  relates,  like  many  other  folk-songs,  to 
the  harvest.  In  this  form,  extracts  or  adaptations  of  it  are  used 
in  connection  with  solemn  occasions — a  fragment  of  it  appeared 
as  part  of  the  miniature  decoration  of  the  menu  for  the  present 
Emperor's  coronation  banquet,  for  instance.  In  another  form,  it 
is  one  of  tlie  Twelfth-Niglit  songs  among  young  people,  and  used 
like  the  divining  games  conunon  to  All-Hallowe'en.  In  this  lat- 
ter form,  Ostrovsky  has  utilized  it  in  his  play,  "Poverty  is  not  a 
Sin,"  Act  II,  Scene  v.  Tlie  form  referred  to  above  is  the  stately 
one,  and  runs  somewhat  as  follows:  "Glory  to  God  in  heaven. 
Glory  .'—To  our  Lord  on  tliis  earth,  Olori/! — May  our  Lord  (the 
word  used  is  ijusuddi-,  wiiicli,  witli  a  ca])ital,  means  tlie  I^mperor), 
never  grow  old.  Glory! — May  liis  l)right  robes  never  be  spoiled, 
Glory! — May  his  good  steeds  never  lie  worn  out,  Glory! — May  his 
trusty  servants  never  falter,  Glory! — May  tlie  right  throughout 
Russia,  Glory! — Be  fairer  than  the  bright  Sun,  Glory! — May  the 
Tzar's  golden  treasury.  Glory! — He  for  ever  full  to  the  brim. 
Glory! — May  the  great  rivers.  Glory! — Hear  their  renown  to  the 
sea,  Glory! — The  little  streams  to  the  mill.  Glory!" — Obviously, 
this  can  easily  be  adapted   to  any  circumstances. — Translator. 

90 


MY  NEIGH  HOUR  KADIT.OIF 

education.  The  more  1  observed  Kadiloff,  the 
more  did  it  seem  to  me  that  he  belonged  to  the 
category  of  such  people.  He  talked  about  farm- 
ing, about  the  harvest,  the  mowing,  about  the 
war,  about  the  county  gossip  and  the  approach- 
ing elections,'  talked  without  constraint,  even 
with  interest,  but  suddenly  he  heaved  a  sigh, 
dropped  into  an  arm-chair,  like  a  man  who  is 
exhausted  with  heavy  toil,  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  face.  His  whole  soul,  kind  and  warm, 
seemed  to  be  permeated  through  and  through, 
saturated  with  one  feeling.  I  had  already  been 
struck  by  the  fact  that  I  could  not  discern  in  him 
a  passion  either  for  eating,  or  for  liquor,  or  for 
hunting,  or  for  Kursk  nightingales,"  or  for 
pigeons  afflicted  with  epilepsy,  or  for  Russian 
literature,  or  for  pacers,  or  for  hussar  jackets, 
or  for  card-playing  or  billiards,  or  for  dancing 
parties,  or  for  paper-mills  and  beet-sugar  fac- 
tories, or  for  embellished  arbours,  or  for  tea,  or 
for  trace-horses  trained  to  the  degree  of  perver- 
sion," or  for  fat  coachmen  girt  directly  under 
the  armpits,  for  those  magnificent  coachmen, 
whose  eyes — God  knows  why — twist  asquint  and 

1  For  Marshal  of  Nobility;  for  the  Governmeut  or  district.— Trans- 
lator. 

-  Tiie  iiiglitingales  from  tlie  Kurtsii  Govcrnnieiit  arc  reputed  the 
finest  in  the  country,  and  have  several  extra  "  tifrns  "  to  their  song. 
— Translator. 

■'  Meaning — the  side  horses  in  llie  troika  or  tlu'ec-iiorse  team, 
trained  to  gallop  spread  out  like  a  fan  from  the  central  trotter,  with 
heads  held  down  and  backwards,  so  that  those  in  the  ccjuipage  can  see 
their  eyes  and  nostrils — tiiis  in  extremes. — Translator. 

91 


ME.MOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAX 

fairly  pop  out  of  their  heads  at  every  iiiove- 
nient  of  their  necks.  .  .  .  **  What  sort  of  a  coun- 
try squire  is  he,  I  d  hke  to  know!  "  1  thought. 
And  in  the  meantime,  he  put  on  no  airs  of  heing 
a  gloomy  man,  and  discontented  with  liis  lot;  on 
the  contrary,  he  fairly  reeked  with  an  atmo- 
sphere  of  unfastidious  good-will,  cordiality,  and 
almost  offensive  readiness  to  be  hail-fellow-well- 
met  with  every  one  who  came  along,  without  dis- 
crimination. It  is  true  that,  at  the  same  time, 
you  felt  that  he  could  not  make  friends,  really 
become  intimate,  with  any  one  whomsoever,  and 
that  he  could  not,  not  because  he  had  no  need  of 
other  people  in  general,  but  because  his  whole 
life  had,  for  the  time  being,  turned  inward.  As 
I  intently  observed  Radiloff,  I  could  not  possi- 
bly imagine  liim  to  myself  as  happy,  either  now 
or  at  any  other  time.  He  was  not  a  beauty, 
either;  but  in  his  glance,  in  his  smile,  in  his  whole 
being  there  was  concealed  something  extremely 
attractive, — precisely  tliat:  concealed.  So,  aj)- 
parently,  one  w^ould  have  liked  to  know  him 
better,  to  love  him.  Of  course,  the  country 
squire,  the  steppe-dweller,  was  apparent  in  him 
at  times;  but,  notwithstanding,  he  was  a  splendid 
fellow. 

We  had  just  begun  to  discuss  the  new  INIarshal 
of  the  Nobility  for  the  district,  wlien,  all  of  a 
sudden,  Olga's  voice  resounded  at  the  door: 
"  Tea  is  ready."    We  went  to  the  drawing-room. 

92 


MY  NElCilTHOUlJ   HADILOFF 

Feodor  JMikhyeitcli  was  sitting,  as  before,  in  liis 
nook  between  the  small  window  and  the  door, 
with  his  feet  modestly  tucked  up.  lladiloff' s 
mother  was  knitting  a  stocking.  Through  the 
windows  ojien  toward  the  garden  there  wafted 
in  the  chill  of  autumn  and  a  scent  of  apples. 
Olga  was  busily  poiu'ing  out  tea.  I  surveyed 
her  now  with  greater  attention  than  at  dinner. 
She  spoke  very  little,  like  all  country  maidens 
in  general,  but  in  her,  at  least,  I  did  not  observe 
any  desire  to  say  something  fine,  together  with 
a  torturing  sense  of  emptiness  and  impotence; 
she  did  not  sigh,  as  though  from  a  superabun- 
dance of  inex])ressible  sentiments,  did  not  roll 
up  her  eyes,  did  not  smile  dreamily  and  indefi- 
nitely. Her  gaze  was  calm  and  indifferent,  like 
that  of  a  person  who  is  resting  after  a  great  hap- 
piness, or  a  great  anxiety.  Her  walk,  her  move- 
ments, were  decided  and  unconstrained.  She 
pleased  me  greatly. 

RadilofF  and  I  got  to  talking  again.  I  cannot 
now  recall  how  we  arrived  at  the  familiar  re- 
mark: how^  frequently  the  most  insignificant 
things  produce  a  greater  impression  than  the 
most  important. 

"Yes,"— said  RadilofF:—"!  have  had  that 
experience  myself.  I  have  been  married,  as  you 
know.  Not  long  ....  three  years;  mj^  wife 
died  in  childbed.  I  thought  that  I  should  not 
survive   her;   I   w^as   frightfully   afflicted,   over- 

93 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

whelmed,  but  1  could  not  weep — I  went  about 
like  a  madman.  They  dressed  her,  in  tlie  usual 
way,  and  placed  her  on  the  table — here,  in  this 
room.  The  priest  came;  the  chanters  came,  and 
they  began  to  sing,  to  pray,  to  cense  with  incense; 
1  made  reverences  to  tlie  earth,  but  not  a  tear 
did  1  shed.  jNIv  heart  seemed  to  have  turned  to 
stone,  and  my  head  also, — and  I  had  grown 
heavy  all  over.  Thus  passed  the  first  day.  On 
the  following  morning  I  went  to  my  wife, — it 
was  in  summer,  the  sun  ilhmiined  lier  from  head 
to  feet,  and  so  brilliantl^^ — All  at  once  I  saw 
.  .  .  ."  Here  RadilofF  involuntarily  shud- 
dered. .  .  "  what  do  vou  tliink  ?  One  of  her  eves 
was  not  quite  closed,  and  on  that  eye  a  fly  was 
walking.  ...  I  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  heap,  un- 
conscious, and  when  I  recovered  mv  senses,  I 
began  to  w^eep,  to  weep, — I  coifld  not  stop.  ..." 

Radilofl'  relapsed  into  silence.  I  looked  at 
him,  tlien  at  Olga.  ...  I  shall  never  forget  the 
expression  of  her  face  as  long  as  I  live.  The  old 
lady  dropped  the  stocking  on  her  knees,  pulled  a 
handkerchief  from  her  reticifle,  and  stealthily 
wiped  away  a  tear.  Feodor  ^Nlikhyeitch  sud- 
denly rose  to  his  feet,  seized  his  fiddle,  and  started 
a  song  in  a  hoarse,  wild  voice.  He  probably 
wished  to  cheer  us  up;  but  we  all  shuddered  at  his 
first  sound,  and  Radflofl'  requested  him  to  be 
quiet. 

"However," — he  went  on: — "what  has  haj^- 

94 


MY  NEICTTBOn?   HADILOFF 

pened,  has  happened;  the  past  eaiiiiot  be  recalled, 
and,  after  all  ...  .  everything  is  for  the  best 
in  this  world,  as  Voltaire — I  think  it  was — once 
said,"  he  added  hastily. 

"Yes," — I  returned: — "of  course.  Besides, 
every  misfortune  may  be  borne,  and  there  is 
no  situation  so  bad,  but  that  one  can  escape 
from  it." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  " — remarked  RadilofF. — 
"  Well,  perha]:)s  you  are  right.  I  remember 
lying  half -dead  in  the  hospital  in  Turkey:  I  had 
putrid  fever.  Well,  our  quarters  were  nothing 
to  brag  of — of  course,  it  was  war-time, — and  we 
thanked  God  for  even  that  much!  All  of  a  sud- 
den, more  patients  were  brought  to  us, — where 
were  they  to  be  put?  The  doctor  rushed  hither 
and  thither :  there  was  no  room.  At  last  he  came 
up  to  me,  and  asked  the  assistant:  '  Is  he  alive? ' 
The  man  answered:  '  He  was  this  morning.'  The 
doctor  bent  over  me,  listening:  I  was  breathing. 
My  friend  lost  patience.  '  Well,  he  has  got  a 
stupid  sort  of  nature,' — said  he : — '  why,  the  man 
will  die,  he  will  infallibly  die,  and  he  keej)s 
creaking  on,  dragging  along;  he  merely  takes 
up  space,  and  interferes  with  others.'  Well,  I 
thought  to  myself,  thou  art  in  a  bad  way,  Mi- 
khailo  ^likhailitch.  .  .  .  And  behold,  I  got  well 
and  am  alive  at  the  present  moment,  as  you  maj^ 
see.     So,  you  must  be  right." 

"  I  am  right,  in  any  case," — I  replied: — ■"  even 

95 


me:moirs  of  a  sportsman 

if  3^ou  Imtl  died,  you  would  have  escaped  from 
your  evil  state."' 

"  Of  course,  of  course," — he  added, — dealing 
the  table  a  heavy  blow  with  his  hand.  ..."  All 

that  is  required,  is  to  make  up  one's  mind 

What 's  the  sense  of  enduring  a  bad  situation? 
....  Why  delay,  drag  matters  out?  .  .  ." 

Olga  rose  swiftly  and  went  out  into  the 
garden. 

"  Come,  now,  Fedya,  a  dance-tune," — ex- 
claimed Radilotf. 

Fedya  leaped  to  his  feet,  strode  about  the  room 
with  that  peculiar  dandified  gait  wherewith  the 
familiar  "  goat  "  treads  around  the  tame  bear, 
and  struck  up:  "  When  at  our  gate  .  .  .  ." 

The  rumble  of  a  racing-gig  resounded  at  the 
entrance,  and  a  few  moments  later  there  came 
into  the  room  an  old  man  of  lofty  stature,  broad- 
shouldered  and  heavily-built,  freeholder  Ovsy- 
anikoff.  .  .  .  But  Ovsyanikoff  is  so  remarkable 
and  original  a  person,  that,  with  the  reader's 
permission,  we  will  discuss  him  in  another  ex- 
cerpt. But  now,  I  will  merely  add,  on  my  ac- 
count, that  on  the  following  day  Ermolai  and 
I  set  off  a-lninting  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  and 
from  the  hunt  went  home;  .  .  ,  that  a  week 
later,  I  ran  in  to  see  Radiloff,  but  found  neither 
him  nor  Olga  at  home,  and  two  weeks  afterward 
learned  that  he  had  suddenly  disappeared,  aban- 
doned his  mother,  and  gone  off  somewhere  or 

96 


MY  NEIGHBOUR  RADILOFF 

other  with  his  sistcr-in-hiw.  The  vvliole  govern- 
ment was  in  eommotion,  and  gossiping  about  this 
occurrenee,  and  only  then,  at  hist,  did  I  under- 
stand the  expression  of  Olga's  face  during  Ra- 
diloff's  story.  It  had  not  breathed  forth  compas- 
sion alone  then:  it  had  also  flamed  with  jealousy. 

Before  my  departure  from  the  country  I 
called  on  old  JMme.  Radiloff .  I  found  her  in  the 
drawing-room;  she  was  playing  "fool"  with 
Feodor  INIikhyeitch. 

"Have  you  any  news  from  your  son?"^ — I 
asked  her  at  last. 

The  old  lady  began  to  weep.  I  questioned  her 
no  further  about  RadilofF.^ 

*  Marriage  with  a  sister-in-law  is  prohibited  in  the  Eastern 
Catholic  Church.  Two  brothers  may  not  even  wed  two  sisters. — 
Translator. 


97 


VI 


FREEHOLDER    OVSYANIKOFF  * 

Picture  to  yourselves,  dear  readers,  a  stout,  tall 
man,  seventy  years  of  age,  with  a  face  somewhat 
suggestive  of  that  of  Kryloff ,-  with  a  clear  and 
intelligent  gaze,  heneath  overhanging  eyehrows: 
with  a  stately  mien,  deliberate  speech,  slow  gait; 
there  is  OvsyanikofF  for  you.  He  wore  a  ca- 
pacious blue  surtout  with  long  sleeves,  a  lilac  silk 
kerchief  round  his  neck,  briglitly-polished  boots 
with  tassels,  and,  altogether,  resembled  a  well-to- 
do  merchant.  His  hands  were  very  handsome, 
soft  and  white;  in  the  course  of  conversation,  he 
frequently  fingered  a  button  of  his  coat.  Ovsy- 
iinikoff,  by  his  dignity  and  impassiveness,  his 
intelligence  and  la/iness,  his  straightforwardness 
and  stubbornness,  reminded  me  of  the  Russian 

'  The  "  freeholders "  constitute  a  peculiar  intermediate  class, 
neither  gentry  nor  peasants.  Ihey  are:  1.  Settlers  wiio  regard 
tlicniselves  of  noble  lineaire,  and,  in  some  cases,  fornu'riy  owned 
serfs.  2.  Descendants  of  nobles  of  tlic  court  service  and  of  military 
men  who  were  colonised  in  the  Ukraina  (Border-Marches)  in  the 
XVlTlh  century.  They  are  found  chiefly  in  tiie  governments  of 
Taml)(')ir,  N'oronezii,  and  neigiibouring  governments,  once  the 
Border-Marches.— Translator. 

-Ivan  Andreevitch  Krylotf  (1TG3-I84i),  the  famous  Russian 
fabulist. — Translator. 

98 


IREEIIOl.DKR    OVSYANIKOFF 

boyars  of  the  times  jinterior  to  Peter  tlie  Great: 
....  the  feryaz  '  would  have  suited  his  style. 
He  was  one  of  the  last  survivors  of  the  oldeu 
days.  All  his  neighbours  respected  him  ex- 
tremely, and  regarded  it  as  an  honour  to  know 
him.  His  brother  freeholders  all  but  said  their 
prayers  to  him,  doffed  their  caps  to  him  from 
afar,  were  proud  of  him.  Generally  speaking, 
to  this  day,  we  find  it  difficult  to  distinguish  a 
freeholder  from  a  peasant:  his  farming-opera- 
tions are  almost  worse  than  those  of  a  peasant, 
his  calves  are  forever  in  the  buckwheat  fields,  his 
horses  are  barely  alive,  his  harness  is  of  ropes. 
Ovsyanikoff  was  an  exception  to  the  general 
ride,  although  he  was  not  reputed  to  be  wealthy. 
He  lived  alone  with  his  wife,  in  a  snug,  neat  little 
house,  kept  only  a  small  staff  of  servants,  clothed 
his  people  in  Russian  style,  and  called  them  la- 
bourers. And  they  really  tilled  his  land.  He  did 
not  claim  to  be  a  nobleman,  he  did  not  pretend 
to  be  a  landed  proprietor,  he  never,  as  the  saying 
is,  "  forgot  himself,"  he  did  not  seat  himself  at 
the  first  invitation,  and  at  the  entrance  of  a  new 
visitor  he  invariably  rose  from  his  seat,  but  with 
so  much  dignit}',  with  so  much  majestic  courtesy, 
that  the  visitor  involuntarily  saluted  him  the 
more  profoundly.  Ovsyanikoff  held  to  ancient 
customs  not  out  of  superstition  (he  had  a  fairly 

*  An  ancient,  long-skirted  coat,  with  long  sleeves,  no  collar, 
and   no   defined  waist-line.— Than si.ator. 

99 


MEISrOIRS    OF    A    SPORTS.MAX 

liberal  soul),  but  from  liabit.  For  example,  he 
did  not  like  ecjuipages  with  springs,  because  he 
did  not  find  them  comfortable,  and  drove  about 
either  in  a  racing-gig,  or  in  a  small,  handsome 
cart  with  a  leather  cushion,  and  himself  held  the 
reins  over  a  good  bay  trotter.  (He  kept  only 
bay  horses.)  The  coachman,  a  rosy-cheeked 
young  fellow,  with  his  hair  cut  in  a  bowl-shaped 
crop,  clad  in  a  bluish  long  coat  and  a  low  sheep- 
skin cap,  and  with  a  strap  for  a  girdle,  sat  re- 
spectfully by  his  side.  Ovsyanikoff  always  slept 
after  dinner,  went  to  the  bath  on  Saturdavs,  read 
only  religious  books  (on  which  occasions  he 
pompously  set  a  j^air  of  silver-mounted  specta- 
cles astride  of  his  nose),  rose  and  went  to  bed 
early.  But  he  shaved  off  his  beard,  and  wore  his 
hair  in  foreign  fashion.  He  w^elcomed  visitors 
with  much  affection  and  cordiality,  but  did  not 
bow  to  their  girdles,  did  not  fuss,  did  not  treat 
them  to  all  sorts  of  dried  and  salted  viands. — 
"Wife!"  he  would  sav  deliberatelv,  without 
rising  from  his  seat,  and  turning  his  head  slightly 
in  her  direction :- — "  Fetch  the  gentlemen  some 
dainty  morsel  or  other."  He  regarded  it  as  a  sin 
to  sell  grain,  the  gift  of  God,  and  in  the  year 
1840,  at  a  time  of  general  famine  and  fright- 
fully high  prices,  he  distributed  his  entire  store 
to  the  neigh})()uring  landed  proprietors  and 
peasants;  in  the  following  year,  they  repaid  their 
debt  to  him  in  kind,  with  gratitude.    The  neigh- 

100 


FREEHOLDKl^    OVSYANIKOFF 

hours  frc(|iiently  resorted  to  Ovsyaiiikoff'  with 
appeals  to  arhitrate,  to  effect  reconeihations  he- 
tween  them,  and  ahiiost  always  suhniitted  to  his 
decree,  oheyed  his  advice.  INIany,  thanks  to  him, 
got  the  houndaries  of  thejr  land  definitely  set- 
tled  But  after  two  or  three  skirmishes 

with  landed  proprietresses,  he  announced  that 
he  declined  any  sort  of  intervention  hetween  per- 
sons of  the  female  "sex.  lie  could  not  endure 
haste,  agitated  precipitation,  women's  chatter 
and  "  fussiness."  Once  it  happened  that  his 
house  caught  fire.  A  labourer  rushed  precipi- 
tately to  him,  yelling:  "Fire!  Fire!" — "Well, 
what  art  thou  yelling  for?  "  said  Ovsyanikoff, 
calmly: — "Give  me  my  hat  and  staff." — He 
was  fond  of  breaking  in  his  horses  for  himself. 
One  day,  a  mettlesome  Bitiuk  ^  dashed  headlong 
down-hill  ^\\\\\  him,  toward  a  precipice.  "  Come, 
that  will  do,  that  will  do,  thou  green  colt, — thou 
wilt  kill  thyself,"  Ovsyanikoff  remarked  good- 
naturedly  to  him,  and  a  moment  later  flew  over 
the  precipice,  along  with  his  racing-drozhky,  the 
small  lad  who  was  sitting  behind,  and  the  horse. 
Luckily,  the  sand  lay  in  heaps  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ravine.  No  one  was  injured,  but  the  Bitiuk 
dislocated  his  leg.—"  Well,  there,  thou  seest,"— 
went  on  Ovsyanikoff  in  a  calm  voice,  as  he  rose 

'"  Bitiiiks  "—horses  from  Bitiuk;  a  special  race,  which  were 
reared  in  the  Government  of  Voronezh,  near  the  well-known 
"Khryenovoy"  (the  former  stud-farm  of  Count  Orloflf).— Trans- 
lator. 

101 


31E.M01KS    OF   A    SrOKTS.MAN 

from  the  ground: — "  1  told  thee  so." — xVnd  lie 
had  found  himself  a  wife  to  match  him.  Tatyana 
Ih'nitc'hna  Ovsyanikolf  was  a  woman  of  lofty 
stature,  dignified  and  taciturn,  Avith  a  cinnamon- 
hrown  silk  kerchief  forever  hound  ahout  her 
head.  She  exhaled  a  chilly  atmosphere,  although 
not  oidy  did  no  one  accuse  her  of  being  severe, 
hut,  on  the  contrary,  many  poor  wretches  called 
her  "  dear  little  mother  "  and  "  benefactress." 
Kegidar  features,  large,  dark  eyes,  thin  lips,  still 
bore  witness  to  her  formerly  renowned  beauty. 
OvsvanikofF  had  no  children. 

I  made  his  acquaintance,  as  the  reader  already 
is  aware,  at  Radiloif  "s,  and  a  couple  of  days  later 
I  went  to  see  him.  I  found  him  at  home.  He 
was  sitting  in  a  large  leathern  arm-chair,  and 
reading  the  Tchetva-]Minava.^  A  grev  cat  was 
purring  on  his  shoulder.  He  welcomed  me,  ac- 
cording to  his  wont,  caressingly  and  in  stately 
wise.     We  entered  into  conversation. 

"  But  pray  tell  me  truly.  Luka  Petrovitch," — 
I  said,  among  other  things; — "  Things  were  bet- 
ter formerlv.  in  vour  time,  were  n't  thev?  " 

"  Some  things  reallv  were  better,  I  will 
tell  vou," — returned  OvsvanikofF: — "We  lived 
more  peacefully:  there  was  greater  ease,  really. 
.  .  .  But,  nevertheless,  things  are  better  now; 
and  they  will  be  better  still  for  our  children,  God 
willing." 

'  "  The  Martyrologj","  or  Lives  of  the  Saints. — Tbakslatob. 

102 


FREEHOLDER    OVSYAXIKOFF 

"But  1  expected,  Eukji  Fetrovitcli,  tliut  ycni 
would  laud  the  olden  days  to  me." 

"  No,  I  have  no  special  cause  to  laud  tlie  olden 
times.  Here,  now,  to  give  an  instance,  you  are 
a  landed  proprietor  at  the  present  day,  just  such 
a  landed  proprietor  as  your  deceased  grandfather 
was  hefore  vou,  but  vou  will  never  have  the 
power  he  had!  and  you  are  not  the  same  sort  of 
a  man,  either.  Other  gentlemen  oppress  us  now- 
adays; but,  evidently,  that  cannot  be  dispensed 
with.  You  can't  make  an  omelette  without 
breaking  eggs.  Xo,  I  no  longer  see  what  I 
used  to  wonder  at  in  my  youth." 

"And  what  was  that,  for  example?" 

"  Why,  take  this  now,  for  instance,  I  will  refer 
to  your  grandfather  once  more.  He  was  an 
overbearing  man!  he  wronged  folks  like  me. 
Xow,  perhaps  you  know — and  how  can  you  help 
knowing  about   your  land? — that   wedge   wliich 

runs  from  Tcheplygino  to  jNIalinino; 

You  have  it  planted  to  oats  now.  .  .  .  Well, 
that 's  ours,  vou  know, — every  bit  of  it  ours. 
Your  grandfather  took  it  away  from  us;  he  rode 
out  on  horseback,  pointed  it  out  with  his  hand, 
said:  "  ]My  property," — and  took  possession  of 
it.  My  father,  now  dead  (the  kingdom  of  heaven 
be  his!),  was  a  just  man,  but  he  was  also  a  hot- 
tempered  man,  and  he  would  not  j)ut  up  with 
that, — and  who  does  like  to  lose  his  property? 
— and  he   appealed   to   the   court   of  law.      One 

103 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAX 

judge  gave  it  to  him,  but  the  others  did  not  agree, 
— they  were  afraid.  So  they  reported  to  your 
grandfather  to  the  effeet  that  '  Piotr  Ovsyani- 
koff  is  making  a  eomphiint  against  you;  lie  says 
you  hav'e  been  jjleased  to  deprive  him  of  his  land.' 
....  Your  grandfather  immediately  sent  his 
huntsman  Bausch  to  us,  with  a  squad.  ...  So 
they  took  my  father  and  carried  him  off  to  your 
hereditary  estate.  I  was  a  little  lad  then,  and  ran 
after  them,  barefooted.  AVhat  next?  ....  Thev 
took  him  to  your  house,  and  flogged  him  in  front 
of  the  windows.  And  your  grandfather  stood 
on  the  balcony,  and  looked  on;  and  your  grand- 
mother  sat  at  the  window  and  looked  on  also. 
My  father  shouts:  '  Dear  little  mother,  JMarya 
Vasilievna,  intercede!  Do  you,  at  least,  spare 
me ! '  But  all  she  did  was  to  keep  rising  up,  now 
and  then,  and  taking  a  look.  So  then  they  made 
my  father  promise  to  retire  from  the  land,  and 
they  ordered  him  to  return  thanks,  to  boot,  that 
they  had  let  him  go  alive.  And  so  it  has  remained 
in  your  possession.  Just  go  and  ask  your  own 
peasants:  '  What  is  that  land  called? '  The  land 
of  the  oaken  cudgel  ^  it  is  called,  because  it  was 
taken  away  by  an  oaken  cudgel.  And  that  is 
why  it  is  impossible  for  us,  the  petty  people,  very 
greatly  to  regret  the  ancient  order  of  things." 

I  did  not  know  what  reply  to  make  to  Ovsy- 
anikofF,  and  did  not  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

'  Dubovshntchimi,  in   Russian. — TnAXSLAxoR. 

104 


1  REKIIOI.DKU    OVSYANl  KOFF 

"  And  then  take  another  of  our  nei^hhours, 
who  made  his  nest  among  us  in  those  days, — K6- 
molf,  Stepjin  Niktopohonitch.  lie  tormented 
my  fatlier  to  death:  if  not  with  biting,  witli 
serateliing.  lie  was  a  drunken  fellow,  and  fond 
of  standing  treat,  and  when  he  had  taken  a 
glass  too  much,  he  would  say  in  French,  '  C'est 
bon,'  and  carry  on  so,  that  it  was  enough  to 
make  one  want  to  take  the  holy  pictiu'es  out 
of  the  room,  with  shame!  He  would  send  and 
invite  all  the  neighbours  to  favour  him  with  their 
company.  He  had  trcVikas  standing  ready  har- 
nessed ;  and  if  you  did  n't  come,  he  'd  drop 
down  on  you  himself.  .  .  .  And  such  a  strange 
man  as  he  was!  When  he  was  sober,  he  did 
not  lie;  but  as  soon  as  he  began  to  drink  he 
would  begin  to  relate  that  in  Peter  ^  he  had 
three  houses  on  the  Fontanka:  one  red,  with  one 
chimney;  another  yellow,  with  two  chimneys; 
and  the  third  blue,  with  no  chimnejs — and  three 
sons  (but  he  was  not  married)  :  one  in  the  infan- 
try, one  in  the  cavalry,  and  the  third  a  gentleman 
of  leisure.  .  .  .  And,  he  said,  that  in  each  of  his 
houses  dwelt  one  of  his  sons;  that  admirals  came 
to  visit  the  eldest,  generals  to  visit  the  second, 
and  nothing  but  Englishmen  to  visit  the  third! 
Well,  and  he  would  rise  to  his  feet  and  say:  '  To 
the  health  of  my  eldest  son,  he  's  the  most  re- 
spectfvd!' — and   begin   to  weep.     And   woe  be 

'  Petersburg. — Translator. 

105 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPOUTSxMAX 

to  the  man  wlio  uiKlcrtook  to  refuse!  '  I  '11  shoot 
him,' — he  would  sav:  'and  1  won't  allow  him  to 
be  buried!  '  .  .  .  .  Or  he  would  spring  up  and  be- 
gin to  shout :  '  Dance,  ye  people  of  God,  for  your 
own  amusement  and  my  consolation ! '  AVell, 
you  'd  dance,  though  you  miglit  die  for  it,  you  'd 
dance.  lie  utterly  wore  out  his  serf  girls.  They 
used  to  sing  in  chorus  all  night  long  until  the 
morning,  and  the  one  who  raised  her  voice  the 
highest  got  a  reward.  And  if  they  began  to 
tire,  he  would  drop  liis  head  on  liis  hands,  and 
begin  to  grieve:  '  Okh,  an  orphaned  orplian  am 
I !  they  are  abandoning  me,  the  dear  little  doves ! ' 
Then  the  stablemen  would  immediately  admin- 
ister  a  little  encouragement  to  the  girls.  He 
took  a  fancy  to  my  father:  how  could  one  help 
that '{  He  almost  drove  my  father  into  his  grave, 
you  know;  and  he  really  would  liave  driven  liim 
into  it,  had  he  not  died  himself,  thank  the  Lord: 
he  tumbled  headlong  from  the  pigeon-house,  in 
a  drunken  fit.  .  .  .  So  that 's  the  sort  of  nice 
neighbours  we  used  to  have!  " 

"  How  times  have  changed!  " — I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  yes,"^ — assented  Ovsyanikoff.  .  .  . 
"  Well,  and  there  's  this  to  be  said:  in  the  olden 
days,  the  nobles  really  lived  more  sumptuously. 
Not  to  mention  the  grandees:  I  had  a  chance 
to  admire  them  in  ]Moscow\  'T  is  said  they  have 
now  died  out  there  also." 

"  Have  you  been  in  jNIoscow?  " 

106 


FREEHOl.DEli    ()  VS  VAN  I K  ()1  F 

"  Yes,  long  ago,  very  long  ago.  I  'm  now  in 
my  seventy-third  year,  and  1  travelled  to  Moscow 
when  1  was  sixteen." 

Ovsyanikoff  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  And  wliom  did  you  see  there?  " 

"  Why,  I  saw  a  great  many  grandees — and 
everybody  saw  them:  they  lived  openly,  glo- 
rionsly,  and  amazingly.  Only,  not  one  of  them 
equalled  Count  Alexyei  Grigorievitch  Orloff- 
Tehesmenskj\'  I  used  to  see  Alexyei  Grigorie- 
vitch frequently:  my  uncle  served  him  as  major- 
domo.  The  Count  deigned  to  live  at  the  Kaluga 
Gate,  on  Shablovka  street.  There  was  a  grandee 
for  you!  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  to  one's  self 
such  an  imposing  carriage,  such  gracious  cour- 
tesy, and  impossible  to  describe  it.  What  was 
not  his  stature  alone  worth,  his  strength,  his 
glance!  Until  you  knew  him,  you  would  n't  enter 
his  house — you  'd  be  afraid,  regularly  intimi- 
dated; but  if  you  did  go  in,  you  felt  as  though 
the  sun  were  warming  you,  and  you  'd  get  cheer- 
ful all  tln-ough.  He  admitted  ever}'  one  to  his 
presence,  and  was  fond  of  everything.  At  races 
he  drove  himself,  and  would  race  with  anybody; 
and  he  woidd  never  overtake  them  all  at  once, 
he  would  n't  hurt  their  feelings,  he  would  n't  cut 

'One  of  Katlieriiio  II's  favourites,  wlio  won  his  title  of  "  Tches- 
m^nsky  "  by  his  victory  over  the  Turivisii  fleet  at  Tchesine  in  17C9. 
A  silver  dinner-plate  which  he  twisted  into  a  roll  with  his  fingers 
is  j)rescrvcd    in   the  Ilerniitage  Museum,   St.   Petersburg. — Trans- 

LATOH. 

107 


MEIMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

them  off  short,  l)iit  probably  lie  would  pass 
them  just  at  the  end;  and  he  was  so  caressing, 
— he  would  comfort  his  adversary,  praise  his 
horse.  lie  kept  first-class  tumbler  pigeons.  He 
used  to  come  out  into  the  courtyard,  seat  himself 
in  an  arm-chair,  and  order  them  to  set  the  pigeons 
flying;  and  all  around,  on  the  roofs,  stood  men 
with  guns,  to  ward  off  the  hawks.  A  big  silver 
vase  of  water  was  placed  at  the  Count's  feet ;  and 
he  would  look  into  the  water  and  w^atch  the 
pigeons.  The  poor  and  the  needy  lived  on  his 
bread  by  the  hundred  .  .  .  and  how  much  money 
he  gave  away!  But  when  he  got  angry,  it  was 
like  the  thunder  roaring.  A  great  alarm,  but 
nothing  to  cry  about:  the  first  you  knew, — he 
would  be  smiling.  He  would  give  a  feast, — and 
furnish  drink  for  all  jNIoscow!  ....  and  what 
a  clever  man  he  was!  he  conquered  the  Turk,  you 
know.  He  was  fond  of  w^restling,  too;  they 
brought  strong  men  to  him  from  Tiila,  from 
Kharkoff,  from  Tamboff,  from  everywhere.  If 
he  overcame  a  man,  he  would  reward  him ;  but 
if  any  one  conquered  him,  he  would  load  that 
man  witli  gifts,  and  kiss  him  on  the  li])s.  .  .  . 
And  during  my  stay  in  Moscow,  he  organised 
such  a  hare-hunt  as  never  was  seen  in  Russia;  he 
invited  all  the  sportsmen  in  the  whole  empire  to 
be  his  guests,  and  ap])ointed  a  day  three  months 
ahead.  Well,  and  so  they  assembled.  They 
brought  dogs,  huntsmen, — well,  an  army  arrived, 

108 


1  KEEllOLDEH    OVS YANl  KOFF 

a  regular  army!  First  they  feasted,  as  was 
proper,  and  then  they  set  oli*  for  the  barrier. 
An  innumerable  throng  of  people  had  collected. 

And  what  do  you  think?  ....  Why, 

your  grandfather's  dog  outran  them  all." 

"  \Vas  n't  it  ISlilovidka?  "  '    I  asked. 

"  Yes,  ]Milovidka.  .  .  .  So,  the  Count  began 
to  entreat  him:  '  Sell  me  thy  dog,'  says  he:  '  ask 
what  price  thou  wilt.' — '  No,  <^^-ount,'  says  he, 
'  I  'm  not  a  merchant :  I  don't  sell  useless  rags, 
and  for  the  sake  of  honour,  1   'm  even  willing  to 

surrender  my  wife,  only  not  INIilovidka 

I  '11  surrender  myself  as  a  prisoner  first.'  And 
Alexyei  Grigorievitch  praised  him:  '  I  like  that,' 
says  he.  And  he  drove  yoiu'  grandfather  back 
in  his  own  carriage;  and  when  JVIilovidka  died, 
they  buried  her  in  the  garden  with  music,— they 
buried  the  bitch,  and  placed  a  stone  with  an  in- 
scription on  it  over  the  bitch's  grave." 

"  Why,  so  Alexyei  Grigorievitch  really  never 
did  offend  any  one," — I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  he  was  always  like  that :  the  man  who  is 
sailing  in  shallow  water  himself  is  the  one  who 
picks  quarrels." 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  man  was  that  Bausch?  " 
— I  asked,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"  How  is  it  tliat  you  have  heard  about  Milo- 
vidka,  and  not  about  Bausch?  ....  He  was 
the    head    huntsman    and    whipper-in    of    your 

'From  miJiy,  j)ietty,  and   I'id,  aspect. — Translator. 

109 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

grandfather.  Your  grandfather  loved  him  no 
less  than  he  did  jNlilovidka.  He  was  a  desperado, 
and  no  matter  what  your  grandfather  ordered, 
he  executed  it  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  even 

if  it  was  to  hurl  himself  on  a  knife And 

when  he  halloed  on  the  hounds,  it  was  as  though 
a  groan  filled  the  forest.  And  all  of  a  sudden, 
he  would  get  a  fit  of  obstinacy,  and  alight  from 
his  horse,  and  lie  down.  .  .  .  And  just  as  soon 
as  the  hounds  ceased  to  hear  his  voice,  it  was  all 
over!  They  would  abandon  a  hot  scent,  they 
would  n't  continue  the  chase,  on  any  terms  what- 
soever. I-ikh,  how  angry  your  grandfather  used 
to  get!  '  I  '11  turn  thee  wrong  side  out,  thou 
antichrist !  I  11  pull  thy  heels  out  through  thy 
throat,  thou  soul-ruiner! '  And  it  would  end  in 
his  sending  to  inquire  what  he  wanted,  why  he 
was  not  uttering  the  halloo!  And  in  such  cases, 
Bausch  would  generally  demand  liquor,  would 
drink  it  off,  get  up,  and  begin  to  whoop  again 
magnificently." 

"  You  seem  to  be  fond  of  hunting  also,  Luka 
Petrovitch  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  liked  it  ...  .  that 's  a  fact, 
but  not  now:  now  my  day  is  over, — but  in  my 
youth  ....  and,  you  know,  it 's  awkward,  be- 
cause of  my  rank.  Pc  is  n't  proper  for  the  like 
of  me  to  try  to  imitate  the  nobles.  That 's  the 
truth  of  it:  one  man  of  our  class — a  drunkard 
and  incapable — used  to  tag  on  to  the  gentry  .... 

110 


FRKKIIOLDKli    OVSYANIKOFF 

but  what  pleasure  is  there  in  that!  You  only  put 
yourself  to  shame.  They  gave  him  a  miserable, 
stvunbling  horse;  and  they  kept  picking  off  his 
cap  and  flinging  it  on  the  ground;  they  would 
strike  him  with  their  hunting-whips,  as  though 
he  were  a  horse ;  and  he  would  laugh  all  the  while 
himself,  and  make  the  others  laugh.  No,  I  tell 
you:  the  smaller  the  rank,  the  more  rigidly  must 
you  behave,  otherwise,  the  first  thing  you  know, 
you  will  be  disgracing  yourself." 

"  Yes," — pursued  Ovsyanikoif ,  with  a  sigh, — 
"  much  water  has  flowed  past  since  I  have  lived 
in  the  world:  other  days  have,  arrived.  Espe- 
cially in  the  nobles  do  I  perceive  a  great  change. 
The  petty  gentry  have  all  either  entered  the  gov- 
ernment service,  or  else  they  don't  stay  still  in 
one  place;  and  as  for  the  greater  estate-owners, 
they  are  unrecognisable.  I  have  had  a  good  look 
at  them,  at  the  big  men,  in  connection  with  the 
delimitation  of  boundaries.  And  I  must  tell 
you,  my  heart  rejoices  as  I  look  at  them: 
they  are  affable,  polite.  Only  this  is  what  sur- 
prises me:  they  have  all  studied  the  sciences, 
they  talk  so  fluently  that  your  soul  is  moved 
within  you,  but  they  don't  understand  real  busi- 
ness, they  are  n't  even  awake  to  their  own  advan- 
tage :  why,  a  serf,  their  manager,  can  drive  them 
whithersoever  he  pleases,  like  a  slave.  Here 
now,  for  example,  perhaps  you  are-  acquainted 
with    KorolyofF,    Alexander    Vladimirovitch, — 

111 


MEMOIRS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

isn't  he  a  regular  noble?  A  beauty,  rich,  edu- 
cated at  the  "  diversity,'  I  believe,  and  has  been 
abroad,  talks  iiuently,  modestly,  shakes  hands 
with  all  of  us.  You  do  know  him?  ....  well, 
then  hearken  to  me.  Last  week,  we  assembled 
at  l^eryozovka,  on  the  invitation  of  the  arbitrator, 
Xikifor  Ilitcli.  And  the  arbitrator,  Nikifor 
Hitch,  says  to  us:  '  Gentlemen,  mc  must  fix  the 
boundaries;  'tis  a  shame  that  our  section  has 
lagged  behind  all  the  rest;  let's  get  to  w^ork.' 
So  we  set  to  work.  Discussions  and  disputes 
began,  as  is  usual;  our  attorney  began  to  put 
on  airs.  But  Porfiry  OvtchinnikofF  was  the  first 
to  make  a  row.  .  .  .  And  on  what  groimd  does 
the  man  make  a  row?  He  doesn't  own  an  inch 
of  land  himself:  he  manages  it  on  behalf  of  his 
brother.  He  shouts:  '  No!  you  can't  cheat  me! 
no,  you  've  got  hold  of  the  wrong  man !  hand  over 
the  plans,  give  me  the  surveyor,  the  seller  of 
Christ,  hand  him  over  to  me ! ' — '  But  what  is 
your  claim  ? ' — '  So  you  think  you  've  caught  a 
fool,  forsooth!  have  n't  I  just  announced  my  de- 
mands to  you?  .  .  .  no,  you  just  hand  over  those 
2)lans, — so  there  now ! '  And  he  is  thwacking  the 
plans  with  his  hand  the  while.  He  dealt  a  deadly 
insult  to  ^Slarfa  Dmitrievna.  She  shrieks:  '  How 
dare  you  sully  my  reputation?' — 'I,' — says  he, 
'  w^ould  n't  want  my  brown  mare  to  have  your 
reputation.'  They  administered  some  madeira 
to  him  by  force.     They  got  him  ({uieted  down, 

112 


1  UKEITOLDEK    OVS\  ANIKOFF 

— and  others  l)egan  to  make  a  rumpus.  Alex- 
ander Vladiniiriteli  Korolyoff,  my  dear  little 
dove,  sits  in  a  corner,  nibbling  at  the  knob  of  his 
cane,  and  merely  shaking  his  head.  I  felt 
ashamed,  't  was  more  than  I  could  endure,  I 
wanted  to  flee  from  tlie  room.  '  What  does  the 
man  think  of  us? '  I  said  to  myself.  And  behold, 
my  Alexander  Vladimiritch  rises,  shows  that  he 
wishes  to  speak.  The  arbitrator  begins  to  fuss, 
says:  '  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  Alexander  Vladi- 
miritch wants  to  speak.'  And  one  can't  help  prais- 
ing the  nobles:  all  of  them  immediately  became 
silent.  So  Alexander  Vladimiritch  began  and 
said:  'We  appear  to  have  forgotten  the  object  for 
which  we  have  come  together;  although  the  de- 
limitation of  boundaries  is,  indisputably,  advan- 
tageous for  the  pi-oprietors,  yet  in  reality,  it  is 
established  for  what  purpose? — it  is  for  the  pur- 
pose of  making  things  easier  for  the  peasant,  so 
that  he  can  toil  and  discliarge  his  obligations  the 
more  conveniently;  but  as  things  stand  now,  he 
does  not  know  even  which  land  is  his,  and  not  in- 
frequently has  to  travel  five  versts  to  till  the  soil, 
— and  he  cannot  be  held  to  account.'  Then  Alex- 
ander Vladimiritch  said  that  it  was  a  sin  for  a 
landed  proprietor  not  to  look  out  for  the  welfare 
of  the  peasants;  that,  in  short,  the  sensible  way 
cf  viewing  the  matter  was,  that  their  advantage 
and  our  advantage  are  identical:  if  they  are  well 
ofT,  we  are  well  off,  if  they  are  in  evil  ])light,  so 

113 


ME.MOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

are  we ;  .  .  .  .  and  that,  consequently,  't  is  a  sin 
and  foolish  to  fail  of  agreement  hecause  of 
trifles.  .  .  .  And  he  went  on,  and  on.  .  .  .  And  how 
he  did  talk!  It  fairly  gripped  your  soul.  .  .  . 
And  all  the  nobles  hung  their  heads,  I  myself 
was  on  the  very  verge  of  melting  into  tears. 
'T  is  a  fact,  that  there  are  no  such  speeches  in  the 
ancient  books.  .  .  .  And  what  came  of  it?  He 
himself  would  n't  surrender  four  desyatinas  of 
moss-bog,  and  would  n"t  sell  it  either.  Says  he: 
'  I  '11  have  my  men  drain  that  swamp,  and  I  '11 
set  up — I  '11  set  up  a  cloth-mill  on  it,  with  im- 
provements. I,'  says  he,  '  have  already  selected 
that  location :  I  have  my  own  calculations  on  that 
score.  .  .  And  if  it  had  only  been  just!  But  the 
simple  facts  in  the  case  were, — that  Alexander 
Vladimiritch's  neighbour,  Anton  KarasikofF, 
had  been  too  stingy  to  bribe  Alexander  Vladimi- 
ritch's  manager  with  a  hundred  rubles.  So  we 
parted  without  ha^'ing  accomplished  any  busi- 
ness. And  Alexander  Vladimiritch  considers 
himself  to  be  in  the  right  up  to  the  present  time, 
and  keeps  babbling  idly  about  a  cloth-mill,  but 
he  does  n't  set  about  draining  the  bog." 
"And  how  does  he  manage  his  estate?  " 
"  He  is  all  the  time  introducing  new-fangled 
notions.  The  peasants  don't  approve  of  them, 
—  but  there's  no  use  in  ])aying  any  attention 
to  them.  Alexander  Madimiritch  is  acting 
rightly." 

114 


FKKKUOLDKU    OVSVANIKOFF 

"  How  so,  Lukti  Petrovitch^  1  thought  you 
clung  to  the  old  ways." 

"  I — am  quite  a  different  matter.  1  'm  not  a 
noble,  you  see,  nor  a  landed  proprietor.  What 
does  my  farming  amount  to?  ...  .  And  I  don't 
know  any  different  way,  either.  I  try  to  act 
according  to  justice  and  the  law, — and  tliat  's  all 
a  man  can  do.  The  young  gentlemen  don't  like 
the  former  ways:  I  a])plau(l  tliem.  .  .'T  is  time 
to  use  their  brains.  Only,  there  's  this  sad  point 
about  it :  the  young  gentlemen  are  awfully  subtle. 
They  treat  the  peasants  as  though  they  were 
dolls:  turn  them  this  way  and  that,  break  them 
and  cast  them  aside.  And  the  manager,  a  serf, 
or  the  steward,  of  German  parentage,  gets  the 
peasants  into  his  claws  again.  And  if  one  of  the 
young  gentlemen  would  only  set  an  example, 
would  demojistrate :  '  This  is  the  way  things 
should  be  managed !'....  But  what  is  to  be 
the  end  of  it?  Is  it  possible  that  I  shall  die  with- 
out having  beheld  the  new  order  of  things?  .  .  . 
Why  is  it?  the  old  has  died  out,  and  the  new  does 
not  prosper!  " 

I  did  not  know  how  to  answer  Ovsyanikoff. 
He  cast  a  glance  about,  moved  closer  to  me,  and 
continued,  in  an  undertone: 

"  Have  you  heard  about  A'asily  Nikolaitcli 
Liubozvonoff  ?  " 

".No,  I  have  not." 

"  Please  to  explain  to  me  what  sort  of  marvels 

115 


ME.MOIKS    OF   A    SrORTSMAN 

are  these.  1  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  uiulerstand. 
Why,  his  o\\n  peasants  told  the  tale,  but  I  will 
not  take  their  speeehes  into  aeeount.  He  's  a 
young  man,  you  know,  who  came  into  his  inheri- 
tance not  long  ago,  at  his  mother's  death.  AVell, 
and  he  comes  to  his  patrimonial  estate.  The 
peasants  have  assembled  to  have  a  look  at  their 
master.  A^'asily  Xikolaitch  comes  out  to  them. 
The  peasants  look,  and — amazing  to  relate! — the 
master  is  wearing  velveteen  trousers  as  though 
he  were  a  coachman,  and  has  donned  short  boots 
with  fancy  tops;  he  has  put  on  a  red  shirt,  and 
a  coachman's  kaftan  also;  he  has  let  his  beard 
grow,  and  has  sucli  a  queer  little  cap  on  his  head, 
and  his  face  is  queer  too, — not  precisely  drunk, 
but  as  thotigh  he  Avere  out  of  his  wits.  '  Good 
day,  my  lads ! '  ^  says  he :  '  Good  luck  to  you ! '  ^ 
The  peasants  make  him  a  reverence  to  the  girdle, 
— but  in  silence:  they  had  got  frightened,  you 
know.  And  he  himself  seemed  to  be  timid.  He 
began  to  make  a  speech: 

"  '  I  'm  a  Russian,'  says  he,  'and  you  are  Rus- 
sians too;   I   love  everything  Russian I 

have  a  Russian  soul,'  savs  he,  '  and  mv  blood  is 
Russian  also.'  ....  And  all  of  a  sudden,  as 
though   it   were   a   command :   '  Come   now,   my 

'  Literally :  "  Health,  my  l;uls ! "  The  official  greeting  of  an 
officer  to  his  soldiers,  to  which  there  is  an  official  reply. — 
Trans  I.  A  TOR. 

^Literally:  "God  l)e  your  hcl))er."  The  customary  greeting  to 
any  jx-asant  one  may  meet. — Tijansi.atok. 

IIG 


FUK ETTOT.DEU    OVS^^\NI  KOFF 

children,  sing  ca  Russian  folk-song! '  The  jx?as- 
ants'  hamstrings  began  to  tremble;  they  turned 
utterly  stupid.  One  bold  lad  tried  to  strike  up 
a  tune,  but  immediately  squatted  down  on  the 

ground,  hid  himself  behind  the  rest And 

there  was  cause  for  amazement:  there  used  to  be 
among  us  landed  proprietors,  desperate  fellows, 
arrant  rakes,  to  tell  the  truth:  they  dressed  almost 
like  coachmen,  and  danced  themselves,^  played 
on  the  guitar,  sang  and  drank  wdth  the  worthless 
house-serfs,  feasted  with  the  peasants;  but  this 
Vasily  Nikolaitch,  you  see,  is  just  like  a  hand- 
some girl :  he  's  always  reading  books,  or  writing, 
when  he  is  n't  declaiming  verses  aloud, — he  never 
converses  with  any  one,  he  holds  himself  aloof, 
he  's  forever  strolling  in  the  garden,  as  though 
he  were  bored  or  sad.  The  former  manager  w^as 
thoroughly  intimidated,  at  first;  before  the  ar- 
rival of  Vasily  Nikolaitch,  he  made  the  rounds 
of  all  the  peasants'  houses,  made  obeisance  to 
everybody, — evidently,  the  cat  knew  whose  meat 
he  had  eaten, — that  he  was  in  fault!  And  the 
peasants  cherished  hopes ;  they  thought :  '  Fiddle- 
sticks, brother! — thou  wilt  soon  be  called  to  ac- 
count, dear  little  dove;  thou  wilt  soon  be  weeping 
thy  fill,  thou  extortioner! '  .  .  .  .  But  it  turned 
out  instead, — how^  shall  I  announce  it  to  you! 

'The  view  taken  of  danrine,  in  olden  days,  in  Russia  was — ■ 
that  it  was  derogatory  to  tiie  dignity  of  gentlefolks;  something 
to  be  performed  for  them  by  their  serfs,  or  paid  inferiors. — 
Translator. 

117 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

The  Lord  Himself  eoiikl  n't  make  head  or  tail 
of  what  happened!  Vasily  Xikolaiteh  sum- 
moned him  to  his  presence,  and  says  to  him, 
Hushing  scarlet  himself  the  while,  and  hreathing 
fast — so.  you  know:  '  Be  just,  don  t  op])ress  any 
one  on  mv  estate, — dost  thou  hear? '  And  from 
that  day  forth,  he  has  never  ordered  him  to  ap- 
pear before  him!  He  lives  on  his  own  paternal 
estate,  as  though  he  were  a  stranger.  AVell,  and 
the  overseer  breathed  freely  and  enjoyed  him- 
self; but  the  peasants  don't  dare  to  approach 
Vasily  Nikolaitch :  they  're  afraid.  And,  you 
see,  here  's  another  thing  which  is  deserving  of 
surjirise:  the  master  bows  to  them,  and  looks 
courteous,^ — ^but  their  bellies  fairly  ache  with 
fright.  Now,  what  sort  of  queer  goings-on  do 
vou  sav  these  are,  dear  little  father?  .  .  .  . 
Either  1  have  become  stupid,  or  grown  old, — but 
I  don't  understand." 

I  answered  OvsyanikofF,  that,  in  all  proba- 
])ility,  ^Ir.  Liubozvonoff  was  ill. 

"  111,  indeed !  He  's  thicker  through  than  I 
am,  and  his  face,  God  be  with  him,  is  very  big 
around,  in  S2:>ite  of  his  youth.  .  .  .  However,  the 
I^ord  knows!"  (And  Ovsyanikoff  heaved  a 
deep  sigh.) 

"Well,  setting  aside  the  nobles," — I  began: 
— "  AVhat  have  vou  to  sav  to  me  about  the  free- 
holders,  Luka  Petrovitch?  " 

"  No,   you   must  excuse  me  from   that," — he 

118 


IRKKIIOLDKR   OVSYAMKOFF 

said  hastily:—"  really  ...  1  would  tell  you  .  .  . 
but  what's  the  use!"  (Oysyaiiikoff  ^vayed  tlie 
subject  aside  with  his  hand.)  "We  'd  better  drink 
tea.  .  .  .  Peasants,  downright  peasants;  neyer- 
theless,  to  tell  the  truth,  what  are  we  to  do?  " 

He  fell  silent.  Tea  was  seryed.  Tatyiina  lli- 
nitchna  rose  from  her  place  and  seated  herself 
nearer  to  us.  During  the  course  of  the  eyening, 
she  had  noiselessly  left  the  room  seyeral  times, 
and  as  noiselessly  returned.  Silence  reigned  in 
the  room.  Oysyanikoff  drank  cup  after  cup,  hi 
a  slow  and  stately  way. 

"  Mitya  was  here  to-day," — remarked  Ta- 
tyana  Ilinitchna  in  an  undertone. 

Oysyanikoff  frowned. 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"  He  came  to  ask  forgiyeness." 

Oysyanikoff  shook  his  head. 

"  No\y,  just  look  at  that," — he  continued,  ad- 
dressing me: — "what  ought  a  man  to  do  about 
his  relatiyes?  'T  is  impossible  to.  renounce  them. 
.  .  Here  now,  God  has  rewarded  me  with  a 
nephew.  He  's  a  young  fellow  with  brains,  a 
dashing  young  fellow,  there's  no  disputing  that; 
he  studied  well,  only,  I  can't  expect  to  get  any 
good  of  him.  .  .  He  was  in  the  goyernment  ser- 
yice — he  abandoned  the  seryice:  you  see,  he  had 
no  chance  of  promotion.  .  .  .  Was  he  a  noble? 
And  eyen  nobles  don't  get  to  be  generals  instan- 
taneously.    And  so,  now  he  is  liying  in  idleness. 

119 


ME.AIOIUS    OF   A   SrOKTSMAN 

.  .  .  And  that  miglit  pass, — but  he  has  turned 
into  a  pettifogger!  He  composes  petitions  for 
the  j^easants,  Avrites  reports,  teaches  the  rural 
pohcemen,  shows  up  the  surveyors  for  \vluit  they 
are,  lounges  about  the  dram-shops,  picks  up  ac- 
quaintance at  the  posting-houses  with  petty 
burghers  from  the  town,  and  with  yard-porters. 
Isn't  a  catastrophe  inmiinent?  And  the  captain 
and  commissary  of  the  rural  police  have  already 
threatened  him.  But  lie,  luckily,  knows  how  to 
jest,  he  makes  them  laugh,  and  then,  afterward, 
he  '11  stir  up  a  mess  for  them.  .  .  .  Come  now, 
isn't  he  sitting  in  thy  chamber?"  .  .  he  added, 
turning  to  his  wife: — "  I  know  thy  ways:  tliou 
art  such  a  tender-hearted  creature, — thou  show- 
est  him  thy  protection." 

Tatyana  Ilinitchna  dropped  her  eyes  and 
blushed. 

"  Come,  that 's  how  it  is," — went  on  Ovsyani- 
koff.  ..."  Okh,  thou  spoiler!  ^Vell,  order  him 
to  come  in, — so.  be  it,  for  the  sake  of  our  dear 
guest,  I  will  forgive  the  stui)id  fellow.  :  .  Come, 
order  him  in,  order  him  in " 

Tatyana  Ilinitchna  went  to  the  door  and  called 
out:  "'Mitya!" 

j\Iitya,  a  young  fellow  of  eight  and  twenty 
years,  tall,  finely  built,  and  curly-haired,  entered 
the  room,  and,  catching  siglit  of  me,  halted  on  the 
threshold.  His  clothing  was  of  foreign  cut,  but 
the  unnatural  size  of  the  puffs  on  the  shoulders 

120 


IREEIIOT.DER   OVSYANIKOFF 

vv^erc  sullicieiit  proof  in  tlicniselves  that  it  had 
heen  made  not  only  by  a  Russian  tailor,  but  by  a 
Russian  of  the  Russians. 

"  Well,  come  on,  come  on,"- — said  the  old  man: 
"of  what  art  thou  ashamed?  Thank  thy  aunt: 
thou  art  forgiven.  .  .  Here,  dear  little  father, 
let  me  introduce  him," — he  went  on,  pointing  to 
Mitya: — "he's  my  own  blood  nephew,  but  I 
shall  nev^er  be  able  to  get  on  with  him.  The 
end  of  the  world  has  come!  "  (We  bowed  to  each 
other.)  "  Come,  speak  up,  what  sort  of  a  scrape 
hast  thou  got  into  yonder?  What  are  they  com- 
plaining about  tliee  for!   Tell  us?  " 

INlitya,  evidently,  did  not  wish  to  explain  and 
defend  himself  before  me. 

"  Afterward,  uncle," — he  muttered. 

"  No,  not  afterward,  but  now," — went  on  the 
old  man.  ..."  I  know  that  thou  art  ashamed 
before  the  noble  squire:  so  much  the  better,  pun- 
ish thyself.  Pray,  be  so  good  as  to  speak  out. 
.  .  .  We  are  listening." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  feel  ashamed," — began 
JNIitya,  vvdth  vivacity,  and  shook  his  head. — 
"  Pray  judge  for  yourself,  dear  uncle.  The 
Ryeshetilovo  freeliolders  come  to  me  and  say: 
'  Defend  us,  bi-other.' — '  What  do  you  want? ' — 
'  Why,  tliis :  our  grain  warehouses  are  in  accurate 
order, — that  is  to  say,  nothing  could  be  better; 
all  at  once,  an  official  comes  in :  "  I  have  orders  to 
inspect  the  warehouses."  He  inspected  them,  and 

121 


:S1EM01KS   OF   A   SPORTS.AIAX 

says:  "  Your  warehouses  are  in  disorder,  there 
are  important  omissions,  I  am  bound  to  report 
to  the  authorities." — "  Why,  wlierein  consist  the 
omissions?  " — "  I  know  what  they  are,"  says  he. 
....  We  came  together,  and  decided  to  thank 
the  official  in  proper  fashion, — but  okl  Proklior- 
itch  interfered;  savs  he:  "In  tliat  wav,  you'll 
only  whet  his  appetite  for  more.  Well,  really 
now%  haven't  we  any  riglits?  " — So  we  heeded 
the  old  man,  but  the  official  flew  into  a  rage, 
and  made  a  complaint,  wrote  a  report." — '  But 
were  your  warehouses  really  in  proper  order? ' 
I  asked. — '  As  God  sees  me,  they  were  in  order 
and  we  have  the  legal  quantity  of  grain.  .  .  .' 
'  Well,'  said  I,  '  then  there  's  no  cause  for  you 
to  fear,'  and  I  wrote  the  document  for  them. 
....  And  no  one  yet  knows  in  whose  favour  it 
will  be  decided.  .  .  .  And  as  for  people  having 
complained  to  you  about  me  in  this  connection, — 
that  is  easy  to  understand:  everybody  looks  out 
for  number  one." 

"  Kverybody  else, — only,  evidently,  not  thou>" 

— said   the   old   man   in   an   undertone 

"  And  what  sort  of  intrigues  hast  thou  been  en- 
gaging in,  witli  the  Shutolomovo  peasants?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  about  that?  " 

"  I  do  know. 

"  I  was  in  the  right  tliere  also, — please  judge 
for  yourself  again.  lk"/])an(lin,  a  neighbour  of 
the  Shutolomovo  peasants,  ploughed  four  desya- 

122 


rUKKHOLDKH    OVSYAX  I  KOKF 

tinus  of  land.  '  The  land  is  mine,'  said  he.  The 
Shutoloniovo  men  are  on  quit-rent,  their  s(iuire 
has  gone  abroad, — judge  for  yourself, — who  is 
there  to  stand  up  for  them?  But  the  land  is 
theirs,  indisputably,  has  belonged  to  the  serfs 
since  time  immemorial.  So  they  come  to  me,  and 
say:  '  Write  a  petition.'  And  I  wrote  it.  But 
Bezpandin  heard  about  it,  and  began  to  make 
threats :  '  I  '11  pull  that  JNIitka's  shoulder-blades 
out  of  their  sockets,'  says  he,  '  if  I  don't  tear  his 
head  clean  off  his  shoulders.  .  .  .'  Let 's  see 
how  he  '11  tear  it  off :  it 's  whole  up  to  the  present 
moment." 

"  Well,  don't  boast ;  thy  head  's  of  no  use  to 
thee," — remarked  the  old  man: — "thou  art  a 
downright  crazy  man!  " 

"  But,  uncle,  was  n't  it  you  yourself  who  said 
to  me " 

"  I  know,  I  know  what  thou  art  going  to  say  to 
me," — Ovsyanikoff  interrupted  him; — "exactly 
so:  a  man  should  live  according  to  justice,  and 
is  bound  to  aid  his  neighbour.  There  are  times 
when  he  should  not  even  spare  himself.  .  .  But 
dost  thou  always  act  in  that  manner?  Don't  folks 
lead  thee  to  the  dram-shop?  don't  they  treat  thee 
to  drinks  ?  don't  they  pay  thee  respect  ?  '  Dmitry 
Alexyeitch,  dear  little  father,'  say  they,  '  help 
us,  and  we  will  show  thee  our  gratitude,' — and 
thnist  a  ruble  or  a  blue  bank-note  into  thy 
hand  under  their  coat-tails?    Hey?    Isn't   that 

123 


'     ME^IOIRS    OF    A    SPOHTS^IAN 

what  happens?  Tell  iiic,  isn't  that  the  Avay 
of  it?" 

"  In  tliat  respect,  I  really  am  guilty," — replied 
JNIitya,  dropping  his  eyes, — "  but  I  take  nothing 
from  tlie  poor,  and  don't  act  against  my  con- 
science." 

"  Thou  dost  not  take  now,  but  when  thou  find- 
est  thyself  in  evil  state, — thou  wilt  take.  Thou 
dost  not  act  against  thy  conscience  ....  ekh, 
shame  on  thee!  Thou  always  upholdest  saints, 
that  means! — But  hast  thou  forgotten  Borka  ^ 
Perekhodoff?  .  .  .  AVho  bustled  about  on  his 
behalf?    Who  lent  him  protection?    Hey?" 

"  Perekhodoff  suffered  through  his  own  fault, 
t  IS  true.     .  .  . 

"  He  spent  the  government  money.  ...  A 
nice  joke  that!  " 

"  But  just  consider,  dear  uncle:  poverty,  a 
family " 

"  Poverty,  poverty.  .  .  He  's  a  drinking  man, 
a  hard  drinker;  .  .  .  that's  what  he  is!" 

"  He  took  to  drink  from  misery," — remarked 
INIitya,  lowering  his  voice. 

"From  misery!  Well,  thou  mightest  have 
helped  him,  if  thy  heart  is  so  warm,  but  thou 
mightest  have  refrained  from  sitting  in  the  dram- 
shop with  a  drunken  man  thyself.  That  he  talks 
eloquently, — much  of  a  rarity  that  is,  forsooth !  " 

"  He 's  the  kindest  man  possible " 

"  Everybody  's  kind,  according  to  thee 

*The  disrespectful  diniiiuitive  of  Boris. — Tkansi.atok. 

124 


FKKKITOT.DER    OVSYAXIKOFF 

Anyhow," — continued  OvsyanikofF,  addressing 
his  wife: — "  they  have  sent  him  off  ....  well, 
yonder,  thou  knowest  whither."  .... 

Tatyana  Ih'nitchna  nodded  her  head. 

"  ^Vhere  hast  thou  (hsappeared  to  these 
(hiys?  " — hegan  the  old  man  again. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  town." 

"  I  suppose  thou  hast  been  playing  billiards 
all  the  while,  and  guzzling  tea,  and  twanging  on 
the  guitar,  and  slipping  stealthily  through  the 
public  offices,  concocting  petitions  in  back  rooms, 
and  showing  thyself  off  in  great  style  with  the 
young  merchants  ?  That 's  so,  is  n't  it  ?  .  .  .  . 
Tell  me!" 

"  Probably  it  is," — said  Mitya,  with  a  smile. 
.  .  "  Akh,  yes!  I  came  near  forgetting:  Fiinti- 
koff,  Anton  Parfenitch,  invites  you  to  dine  with 
him  on  Sunday." 

"  I  won't  go  to  that  big-bellied  fellow's  house. 
He  '11  serve  us  with  fish  worth  a  hundred  rubles, 
and  prepared  with  tainted  butter.  I  '11  have  no- 
thing whatever  to  do  with  him!  " 

"  By  the  way,  I  met  Fedosya  Mikhailovna." 

"What  Fedosya  is  that?  " 

"  Why,  the  one  who  belongs  to  Squire  Gar- 
pentchenko,  you  know,  who  bought  INIikulino  at 
suction.^  Fedosya  is  from  Mikulino.  She  lives 
in  Moscow  as  a  seamstress,  and  paid  quit-rent, 
one  hundred  and  eighty-two  rubles  a  year.  .  .  . 
And  she  knows  her  business:  she  received  fine 

^  Auction, — Translator. 

125 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAX 

orders  in  Moscow.  Rut  now,  (rurpentchenko 
has  ordered  lier  back,  and  is  keeping  her  here 
idle,  and  assigns  lier  no  (hities.  She  is  ready 
to  purchase  her  freedom,  and  has  tokl  her  Jiiaster 
so.  but  he  announces  no  decision.  You  are 
acquainted  witli  (xarpentchenko,  uncle, — so 
coukl  n't  you  speak  just  a  httle  word  to  him? 
And  Fedosya  will  pay  a  good  ransom." 

"  Xot  out  of  thy  money,  is  it?  Well,  well,  all 
right,  all  right,  I  '11  speak  to  him.  Only,  I  don't 
know," — went  on  the  old  man,  with  a  displeased 
countenance: — "  that  Gar])entchenko,'  I>ord  for- 
give him,  is  an  extortioner:  he  buys  in  notes,  lends 
at  usurious  interest,  acquires  estates  under  the 

hammer And  who  brought  him  to  our 

parts?  Okh,  how  I  detest  these  newcomers!  It 
won't  be  a  short  matter  to  get  any  satisfaction 
from  him ;— however,  we  shall  see." 

"  Use  your  efforts,  uncle." 

"Good!  I  will.  Only,  see  here  now,  mind 
what  I  say!  Come,  come,  don't  defend  thyself. 
.  .  .  God  bless  thee,  God  bless  thee!  .  .  .  Only, 
hereafter,  look  out,  or,  by  heaven,  jNIitya,  't  will 
be  the  worse  for  thee, — thou  wilt  come  to  grief, 
by  heaven,  thou  wilt!  ...  I  can't  carry  thee  on 
my  shoulders  forever.  ...  I  'm  not  an  influen- 
tial man  myself.     Now  go,  with  Crod's  blessing." 

^  Evidently,  from  liis  name,  ending  in  ciiko,  the  man  was  a 
Little  Russian,  whose  compatriots  bear  in  linssia  the  reputation 
of  l)eing  as  "canny"  as  tiic  Scotch  in  iMigland,  or  as  "sharp" 
as  the  Yankees  in   America. — Tkaxslator. 

126 


FREEHOLDKU    OVSVANIKOFF 

JMitya  left  the  room.  Tatyana  Ilinitelina  fol- 
lowed him. 

"  Give   him   some   tea,   thou    child-spoiler," — 

shouted  Ovsyanikolf  after  her "  He  's 

not  a  stupid  young'  fellow,"  he  went  on: — "and 
lie  has  a  kind  soul,  only,  I  'm  afraid  for  him. 
.  .  .  But  pardon  me,  for  having  taken  up  so 
much  of  your  time  with  trifles." 

The  door  into  the  anteroom  opened.  There 
entered  a  short,  greyish-haired  man,  in  a  velvet 
coat. 

"Ah,  Franz  Ivanitch!" — exclaimed  Ovsyani- 
koff: — "good  morning,  what  mercies  does  God 
show  to  you?  " 

Permit  me,  amiahle  reader,  to  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  this  gentleman  also. 

Franz  Ivanitch  Lejeune,  my  neighbour  and  a 
landed  proprietor  of  Orel,  attained  to  the  hon- 
ourable rank  of  a  Russian  noble  in  manner  not 
entirely  usual.  He  was  born  in  Orleans,  of 
French  parents,  and  set  off  in  company  with 
Xapoleon  to  conquer  Russia,  in  the  capacity  of 
a  drummer.  At  first,  everything  went  as  though 
on  oiled  wheels,  and  our  Frenchman  entered 
Moscow  with  head  erect.  But  on  the  return 
join-ney  poor  JNI — r.  Lejeune,  half  frozen  and 
without  his  drum,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Smolensk  peasants.  The  Smolensk  peasants 
locked  him  up  for  the  night  in  an  empty  fulling- 
mill,  and  on  the  following  morning  led  him  to  a 

127 


ME^NIOIRS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

hole  in  the  ice,  elose  It)  the  dam,  and  began  to 
entreat  the  drummer  "  de  la  grrrrande  armee," 
to  do  them  a  favour,  that  is,  to  dive  under  the 
ice.  JNI — r.  Lejeune  could  not  assent  to  their  pro- 
posal, and,  in  return,  he  began  to  try  to  prevail 
upon  the  Smolensk  peasants,  in  the  French  dia- 
lect, to  set  him  free  to  return  to  Orleans. 
"  There,  messieurs,"  said  he,  "  dwells  my  mother, 
line  tendre  mere."'  But  the  peasants,  probably 
in  consequence  of  their  ignorance  as  to  the 
geographical  situation  of  Orleans,  continued  to 
propose  to  him  a  trip  under  the  ice,  with  the 
downward  current  of  the  winding  little  river 
Gnilotyorka,  and  had  already  begun  to  encour- 
age him  with  gentle  thrusts  in  the  vertebra^  of  his 
neck  and  back,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  the  inde- 
scribable joy  of  Lejeune,  the  sound  of  a  small 
bell  rang  out,  and  on  to  the  dam  drove  a  huge 
sledge  with  a  gay-hued  rug  on  the  exaggeratedly 
elevated  foot-board  beliind,  and  drawn  by  a  team 
of  three  roan-horses.  In  the  sledge  sat  a  fat, 
red-faced  landed  pro])rietor  in  a  wolf -skin  coat. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there?  " — he  asked  the 
peasants. 

"  Why,  we  're  drowning  a  Frenchman,  dear 
little  father." 

"All!" — returned    the    squire,    indifferently, 
and  turned  awa5^ 

"Monsieur!    ^Monsieur!" — shrieked  the  poor 

man. 

128 


FREKIIOLDKR    OVSYANIKOFF 

"All,  all!" — remarked  the  wolf-skiii  eoat,  re- 
provingly:— "lie  has  eome  to  Russia  with  the 
twelve  nations,'  lias  hurned  JMoscow, — the  ac- 
cursed one! — has  torn  the  cross  from  Ivan  Ve- 
liky,-  and  now  'tis  '  ]\Iusieu,  INIusieu!'  and  now 
he  has  tucked  his  tail  hetween  his  legs!  The  thief 
ought  to  suffer  torture Drive  on,  Filka!  " 

The  horses  started. 

"Ah,  stop,  though!" — added  the  s(iuire.  .  .  . 
"  hey,  thou,  IMusieu,  dost  understand  music?  " 

"  Sauvez-moi,  sauvez-rnoi,  man  hon  mon- 
sieur! " — repeated  Fe jeune. 

"Did  any  one  ever  see  such  a  race!  and  not 
one  of  them  knows  a  single  word  of  Russian! 
Musiquc,  tnii.siqiic,  savez  musique  vous? — on 
piano  jouez  savez?  " 

Lejeune  understood,  at  last,  what  the  landed 
proprietor  was  driving  at,  and  nodded  his  head 
affirmatively. 

"  Old,  monsieur,  oui,  oui,  je  suis  musicien;  je 
joue  tons  les  instruments  possibles!  Oui,  mon- 
sieur   Sauvez-7noi,  monsieur! " 

"  Well,  thou  hast  had  a  narrow  escape," — re- 
torted the  squire.  .  .  "Release  him,  my  lads: 
here  's  a  twenty-kopek  piece  for  you,  for  liquor." 

*  In  the  grand  Te  Deum  which  is  celebrated  always  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  ill  commemoration  of  tiie  delivery  of  Russia,  in  1812, 
the  French  and  their  allies  are  called  "the  Gaids  and  the  Twelve 
Nations  " — the  word  employed  for  nation  being  the  one  which  is 
derived  from  the  same  root  as  the  word  heathen. — Translator. 
The  great  l)elfry  of  the  Kremlin. — Translator. 

129 


MEMOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

,  "  Thanks,  dear  little  father,  thanks.  Please 
take  him/' 

They  seated  Lejeune  in  the  sledge.  He  was 
choking  with  joy,  he  wept,  trembled,  made  obei- 
sance, thanked  the  squire,  the  coachman,  the 
peasants.  He  wore  a  green  under- jacket  with 
pink  ribbons,  and  the  weather  was  gloriously 
cold.  The  squire  cast  a  silent  glance  at  his  blue 
and  benumbed  limbs,  wrapped  the  unliappy  man 
in  his  fur  cloak,  and  carried  him  home.  The  ser- 
vants flocked  together.  They  hastily  warmed, 
fed,  and  clothed  the  Frenchman.  The  squire 
conducted  him  to  his  daugliters. 

"  Here,  children, "^ — he  said  to  them: — "  I  've 
found  a  teacher  for  you.  You  have  kept  pester- 
ing me,  '  Teach  us  music  and  the  French  dialect  ': 
so  here  's  a  Frencliman  for  you,  and  he  plays  on 
the  piano  too.  .  .  .  Come  on,  IMusieu," — he  con- 
tinued, pointing  to  the  miserable  little  piano, 
which  lie  liad  2:)urchased  five  years  previously 
from  a  Je^v,  who,  however,  peddled  Cologne 
water: — "  show  us  your  skill:  jouez!" 

Lejeune,  wdth  sinking  heart,  seated  himself 
on  the  stool:  he  had  never  laid  finger  on  a  piano 
since  he  was  born. 

"  Come,  joucz,  joucz! " — repeated  the  squire. 

In  desperation,  the  ])oor  fellow  banged  on  the 
keys  as  though  they  had  been  a  drum,  and  played 

at    haphazard "I    really    thought,"    he 

said,  as  he  told  the  story  afterward,  "  that  my  res- 

130 


FREEHOLDER   OVSVANIKOFF 

ciier  would  seize  me  by  the  collar,  and  fling  me 
out  of  the  house."  Rut,  to  tlie  intense  amaze- 
ment of  the  involuntary  improvisatore,  the 
landed  proprietor,  after  a  while,  slapi)ed  him  ap- 
provingly on  the  shoulder.  "  Good,  good," — 
said  he,  "I  see  that  thou  knowest  how;  go  now, 
and  rest." 

A  couple  of  weeks  later,  Lejeune  was  trans- 
ferred from  this  landed  proprietor  to  another,  a 
wealthy  and  cultivated  man,  became  a  favourite 
with  him  tlu'ough  his  cheerful  and  gentle  dispo- 
sition, married  his  pupil,  entered  the  government 
service,  married  his  daughter  to  landed  pro- 
prietor EobysanyefF  of  the  Orel  government,  a 
retired  dragoon  and  poet,  and  himself  removed 
his  residence  to  Orel. 

And  it  was  this  same  Lejeune,  or,  as  he  was 
now  called,  Franz  Ivanitch,  who  entered  the 
room  of  OvsyanikofF,  with  whom  he  was  on 
friendly  terms 

Rut,  perliaps,  the  reader  is  already  tired  of  sit- 
ting witli  me  at  Freeholder  Ovsvanikoff's,  and 
therefore  I  will  preserve  an  eloquent  silence. 


131 


VII 


LGOFF  ^ 


"  Let  's  go  to  Lgoff ," — said  Ermolai,  who  is 
already  known  to  the  reader,  to  me  one  day; — 
"  we  can  shoot  a  lot  of  dncks  there." 

Although  a  wild  duck  offers  nothing  particu- 
larly attractive  for  a  genuine  sportsman,  still, 
in  the  temporary  absence  of  other  game  (it  was 
the  beginning  of  September;  the  woodcock  had 
not  yet  arrived,  and  I  had  got  tired  of  tramping 
over  the  fields  after  partridges),  I  gave  heed  to 
my  huntsman,  and  set  off  for  logoff. 

logoff  is  a  large  \illage  on  the  steppe,  with  an 
extremely  ancient  stone  church  of  one  cuj^ohi, 
and  two  mills,  on  the  marshy  little  river  Rosota. 
Five  versts  from  Lgoff  tliis  little  stream  becomes 
a  broad  pond,  overgrown  along  the  edges  and 
here  and  there  in  the  middle  with  dense  reeds 
On  this  ])ond,  in  the  bays  or  stagnant  spots  amid 
the  reeds,  there  bred  and  dwelt  an  innumerable 
mass  of  ducks  of  all  possible  varieties:  widgeon, 
semi-widgeon,  pintails,  teals,  mergansers,  and  so 

'  The  soft  sifin  between  the  J  and  the  r/  rendei-s  the  former 
soft:  so  that  lliis  is  j)ronounc'C(l  ahnost  as  though  s])elU'(l  I>[i]goff. — 
Translatoh. 

132 


T.GOFF 

forth.  Small  coveys  were  constantly  flying  to 
and  fro,  hovering  over  the  water,  and  a  shot 
started  up  such  clouds  of  them,  that  the  sports- 
man involuntarily  clai)pcd  one  hand  to  his  cap 
and  emitted  a  prolonged:  "  Phe-e-ew!" — Efrmo- 
lai  and  1  started  to  walk  along  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  but,  in  the  first  place,  the  duck,  which  is 
a  wary  bird,  does  not  take  up  its  stand  on  the 
shore  itself;  in  the  second  place,  even  if  any  lag- 
gard and  inexperienced  teal  had  succumbed  to 
our  shots  and  lost  its  life,  our  dogs  would  not 
have  been  able  to  retrieve  it  in  the  dense  reed- 
growth:  in  spite  of  the  most  noble  self-sacrifice, 
they  could  neither  have  swum,  nor  walked  on  the 
bottom,  and  would  have  cut  their  precious  noses 
against  the  sharp  edges  of  the  reeds  all  in  vain. 

"No," — said  Krmolai  at  last: — "this  won't 
do :  we  must  get  a  boat.  .  .  .  Let 's  return  to 
LgofF." 

We  set  off.  We  had  taken  only  a  few  steps 
when  from  behind  a  thick  willow,  a  decidedly 
wretched  setter  ran  forth  to  meet  us,  and  in  its 
wake  a  man  made  his  appearance — a  man  of  me- 
dium stature,  in  a  blue,  very  threadbare  coat,  a 
yellowish  waistcoat,  trousers  of  the  tint  known  as 
gris-de-laine  or  hleu-d' amour,  hastily  tucked 
into  boot's  full  of  holes,  with  a  red  kerchief  on 
his  neck,  and  a  single-barrelled  gun  on  liis  shoul- 
der. While  our  dogs,  with  the  Chinese  ceremo- 
nial habitual  to  their  race,  sniffed  at  the  unfa- 

133 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

miliar  individual,  who  was  evidently  intimidated, 
tucked  his  tail  hetween  his  legs,  dropped  his  ears, 
and  hriskly  wriggled  all  over  without  bending 
his  knees  and  showing  his  teeth  the  while, — the 
stranger  came  up  to  us,  and  made  a  very  polite 
obeisance.  Judging  by  his  appearance,  he  was 
about  five  and  twenty  years  of  age;  his  long, 
light  chestnut  hair,  strongly  impregnated  with 
kvas,  stuck  out  in  motionless  little  pig-tails, — his 
small  brown  eyes  blinked  amiably, — his  whole 
face,  bound  up  with  a  black  kerchief,  as  though 
he  were  suffering  from  the  toothache,  beamed 
voluptuously. 

"  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself, "^ — he  began, 
in  a  soft,  insinuating  voice: — "I  'm  the  huntsman 
here,  A^ladimir On  hearing  of  your  ar- 
rival, and  learning  that  you  had  deigned  to  di- 
rect your  steps  to  the  shores  of  our  pond,  1  have 
decided,  if  it  will  not  be  disagreeable  to  you,  to 
offer  you  my  services." 

Huntsman  A^ladimir  talked  precisely  like  a 
young  provincial  actor  who  plays  the  parts  of 
the  leading  lovers.  I  accepted  his  proposal,  and 
before  we  reached  LgofF  I  had  succeeded  in 
learning  his  history.  He  was  a  house-serf  who 
had  been  set  at  liberty;  in  his  tender  youth,  he 
had  studied  music,  then  had  served  as  valet,  knew 
how  to  read  and  write,  had  read  a  few  little  books, 
so  far  as  1  could  make  out,  and  while  now  exist- 
ing, as  many  do  exist  in  Russia,  without  a  far- 


LGOFF 

thing  in  cash,  without  any  fixed  occupation,  sub- 
sisted on  something  pi'ctty  near  akin  to  heavenly 
manna.  He  expressed  himself  with  remarkable 
elegance  and  obviously  took  a  foppish  pride  in  his 
manners;  he  must  have  been  a  frightful  dangler 
after  the  women,  too,  and,  in  all  probability,  en- 
joyed successes  in  that  line:  Russian  maidens  love 
ekxpience.  Among  other  things,  he  directed  my 
attention  to  the  fact,  that  he  sometimes  called  on 
the  neighbouring  landed  proprietors,  and  went 
to  town  to  visit,  and  played  preference,  and  was 
acquainted  with  people  in  the  county  capital. 
He  smiled  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  with  ex- 
treme diversity;  the  modest,  reserved  smile 
which  played  over  his  lips  wiien  he  was  listening 
to  the  remarks  of  other  people,  was  particularly 
becoming  to  him.  He  would  listen  to  you,  and 
agree  with  you  perfectly,  but  nevertheless  he  did 
not  lose  the  sense  of  his  own  dignity,  and  seemed 
to  be  desirous  of  giving  you  to  understand  that, 
on  occasion,  he  might  put  forth  an  opinion  of  his 
own.  Ermolai,  being  a  man  of  not  too  much  edu- 
cation, and  not  in  the  least  "  subtle,"  undertook 
to  address  him  as  "  thou."  You  ought  to  have 
seen  the  grin  with  which  Vladimir  addressed  him 
as  "  you-sir."  .... 

"  Why  are  you  wearing  that  kerchief-band- 
age?" — I  asked  him. — "Have  you  the  tooth- 
ache?" 

"No,   sir," — he   replied :^ — "it   is,   rather,   the 

135 


MEMOIRS    OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

noxious  result  of  imprudence.  I  had  a  friend,  a 
tine  man,  sir,  not  a  huntsman  at  all,  as  that  some- 
times happens,  sir.  Well,  sir,  one  day  he  says  to 
me:  '  J\ly  dear  friend,  take  me  a-hunting:  I  feel 
curious  to  know  what  diversion  there  is  in  that.' 
Naturally,  1  did  not  wish  to  refuse  my  comrade; 
I  furnished  him  w  ith  a  guii,  sir,  for  nty  part,  and 
took  him  a-hunting,  sir.  Well,  sir,  we  hunted 
our  fill,  as  was  proper ;  and,  at  last,  we  took  it  into 
our  heads  to  rest,  sir.  I  sat  down  under  a  tree; 
but  he,  on  his  side,  on  the  contrary,  began  to  play 
pranks  with  his  gun,  sir,  and  took  aim  at  me.  I 
requested  him  to  stop  it,  but,  in  his  inexperience, 
he  did  not  heed  me,  sir.  The  gun  went  off,  and 
1  lost  my  chin  and  the  forefinger  of  my  right 
hand " 

We  reached  Lgoff.  But  Vladimir  and  Er- 
moliii  had  decided  that  it  was  impossible  to  hunt 
without  a  boat. 

"  Sutchok  has  a  barge-plank  punt,"  ^ — re- 
marked Vladimir: — "  but  I  don't  know  where  he 
has  hidden  it.    I  must  run  to  him." 

"  To  whom?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  a  man  lives  here  whose  nickname  is 
Sutchok"  (The  Twig). 

Vladimir,  with  Ermolai,  set  off  in  quest  of 
The  Twig.  I  told  them  that  I  Mould  wait  for 
them  at  the  cliurch.  As  I  inspected  the  tomb- 
stones in  the  churchyard,  I  hit  upon  a  blackened, 
(juadrangular  urn,   with   the   following   inscrip- 

'  A  flat  boat  knocked  together  from  old  barge  planks. 

136 


T.GOFF 

tions:  on  one  side,  in  Fieneli  characters:  "  Ci-git 
'I'heophile-Henri,  Viconite  de  Blangy;"  on  an- 
other: "Beneath  this  stone  is  interred  the  body 
of  Count  Blangy,  French  subject;  born  1737, 
died  1799,  at  the  age  of  62;  "  on  the  third  side: 
"  Peace  to  his  ashes;  "on  the  fourth  side: 

Beneath  this  stone  lies  a  French  emigrant: 

He  had  birth  distinguished  and  talent. 

By  the  massacre  of  wife  and  family  distressed, 

He  abandoned  his  fatherland  by  the  tyrant  oppressed ; 

The  shores  of  the  Russian  land  having  attained, 

In  his  old  age  a  hospitable  roof-tree  he  gained ; 

The  children  he  taught,  the  parents  consoled 

Here  the  Almighty  Judge  has  given  rest  to  his  soul. 

The  arrival  of  Ermolai,  Vladimir,  and  the  man 
with  tlie  strange  nickname.  The  Twig,  inter- 
rupted my  meditations. 

Barefooted,  tattered,  and  dishevelled.  The 
Twig  seemed,  from  his  appearance,  to  be  a  re- 
tired house-serf,  about  sixty  years  of  age. 

"  Hast  thou  a  boat?  " — I  asked. 

"  I  have," — he  replied,  in  a  dull  and  cracked 
voice: — "  but  it 's  very  bad." 

"  How  so?  " 

"  It 's  coming  apart;  and  the  plugs  have  fallen 
out  of  the  holes."  * 

"A  great  misfortune  that,"  put  in  Ermolai: 
"  but  we  can  stuff  in  tow." 

*  See  note  on  page  21 . — Traxslator- 

137 


MEIMOIRS   OF   A   SPOKTSMAX 

"  Of  course,  that  is  possible," — assented  The 
Twig. 

"But  who  art  thou?" 

"  The  squire's  fisherman." 

"  How  canst  thou  be  a  fisherman,  and  have 
thy  boat  in  such  disrepair?  " 

"  Why,  there  are  no  fish  in  our  river." 

"  Fish  don't  hke  rusty  swamp-water," — re- 
marked my  huntsman,  pompously. 

"  AVell," — I  said  to  Ermolai: — "  go,  get  some 
tow,  and  repair  the  boat  for  us,  and  be  quick 
about  it." 

Ermolai  departed. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  shall  go  to  the  bottom, 
anywaj^?  " — I  said  to  Vladimir. 

"  God  is  merciful," — he  replied.  "  In  any 
case,  w^e  are  bound  to  suppose  that  the  pond  is 
not  deep." 

"  No,  it  is  n't  deep," — remarked  The  Twig, 
who  talked  in  a  curious  manner,  as  though  half 
asleep: — "and  there  is  slime  and  grass  on  the 
bottom,  and  it  's  all  overgrown  with  grass. 
However,  there  are  pit-holes  too." 

"  But  if  the  grass  is  so  strong," — remarked 
Vladimir: — "  it  will  be  impossible  to  row." 

"  Why,  but  who  does  row  a  punt?  It  must  be 
shoved  with  a  pole;  I  have  a  pole  yonder, — or  a 
shovel  will  do." 

"  A  shovel  is  clumsy,  1  don't  suppose  one  coidd 
toucli  hottom  with  it  in  some  places," — said 
Vladimir. 

138 


LGOFl' 

"  That 's  true,  it  is  awkward." 

I  sat  down  on  a  grave  to  ^vait  for  Erniolai. 
Vladimir  went  off  a  little  way,  from  a  sense  of 
propriety,  and  sat  down  also.  The  Twig  con- 
tinued to  stand  in  the  same  spot,  with  drooping 
head,  and  hands  folded  behind  his  back,  out  of 
old  habit. 

"Tell    me,    please," — I    began: — "hast    thou 

been  a  fisherman  here  long?  " 

"  This  is  the  seventh  year," — he  replied,  with 
a  start. 

"  And  what  was  thy  previous  occupation?  " 

"  Formerly  I  was  a  coachman." 

"  Who  discharged  thee  from  the  post  of  coach- 
man  { 

"  Why,  the  new  mistress." 

"  What  mistress?  " 

"  Why,  the  one  who  has  bought  us.  You  don't 
know  her:  Alyona  [Elena]  Timofyeevna,  such 
a  fat  w^oman  ....  and  not  young." 

"  What  made  her  take  it  into  her  head  to  pro- 
mote thee  to  be  the  fisherman?  " 

"  God  knows.  .  She  came  to  us  from  her  es- 
tate, from  Tamb6fi\  ordered  all  the  house-serfs 
to  assemble,  and  came  out  to  us.  First  of  all,  we 
went  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  she  made  no  ob- 
jection: she  was  not  angry.  .  .  And  then  she 
began  to  question  us,  one  after  the  other:  what 
did  each  do,  what  duties  did  he  perform?  My 
turn  came;  so  she  asks:  '  What  hast  thou  been? ' 
I  sav:  '  A  coachman! ' — '  A  coachman?   Well,  a 

139 


me:\ioirs  of  a  spoutsmax 

pretty  sort  of  coachman  tliuii  art ;  just  look  at 
thyself:  a  coachman,  forsooth!  'T  is  not  fit  that 
thou  shouldst  be  a  coachman:  thou  shalt  be  my 
fisherman,  and  thou  must  shave  off  thy  beard. 
AVlien  I  come  hither,  thou  art  to  supply  fish  for 
mv  table,  dost  hear  ? '  .  .  .  So  from  that  time 
forth,  I  have  been  reckoned  a  fisherman.  And 
it  is  my  business,  you  see,  to  keep  the  pond  in 
order But  how  is  it  to  be  kept  in  order?  " 

"  To  whom  did  you  formerly  belong?  " 

"  Why,  to  Sergyei  Sergyeitch  Pekhteroff. 
We  came  to  him  through  inheritance.  But  he 
did  not  own  us  long, — six  years  in  all.  And  I 
served  as  coachman  to  him  .  .  .  but  not  in  town 
— there  he  had  others,  })ut  in  the  country." 

"  And  wert  thou  always  a  coachman,  from  thy 
youth  up?  " 

"A  coachman,  indeed!  I  became  a  coachman 
under  Sergyei  Sergyeitch,  but  before  that  I  was 
the  cook, — but  not  in  town,  but  thus,  in  the  coun- 

try." 

"  And  whose  cook  wert  thou?  " 
"  Why,  my  former  master's,  Afanasy  Xefyo- 
ditch,  uncle  to  Sergyei  Sergyeitch.     Pie  bought 
LgofF,  Afanasy  Xefyoditch  bought  it,  and  Ser- 
gyei Sergyeitcli  inlierited  the  estate." 
"  From  whom  did  he  buy  it?  " 
"Why,  from  Tatyana  Vasilievna!" 
"  From  what  Tatyana  Vasilievna?  " 
Why,  the  one  yonder,  who  died  year  before 


<( 


i.(;()FF 

last,  near  B(ilklu')fF  ....  I  mean  to  say,  near 

Kanitclievo,— a    spinster And    she    was 

never  married.  Don't  you  know  her?  We  came 
to  her  from  her  father,  from  Vasily  Semyonitch. 
She  owned  us  a  pretty  long  time  ....  ahout 
twenty  years." 

"  Well,  and  so  thou  wert  her  cook?  " 
"  At  first,  in  fact,  I  was  a  cook,  and  then  I  he- 
came  kofischenk." 
"What?" 
"  Kofischenk." 

"  What  sort  of  an  employment  is  that?  " 
"  Why,   I  don't  know,  dear  little  father.     I 
was   attached   to   the   hutler's   pantry,    and   my 
name  was  Anton,  and  not  Kuzma.     Those  were 
the  mistress's  orders." 

"  Is  thy  real  name  Kuzma?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  And  wert  thou  kofischenk  all  the  time?  " 
"  No,  not  all  the  time:  I  was  also  an  actor." 
"  Is  it  possible?  " 

"  Of  course  I  was.  ...  I  played  in  the 
keatre.  Our  mistress  set  up  a  keatre  in  her 
house." 

"  What  parts  didst  thou  play?  " 
"  What  were  you  pleased  to  ask,  sir?  " 
"  What  didst  thou  do  in  the  theatre?  " 
"  Whv,  don't  A^ou  know?    Well,  thev  would 
take  and  dress  me  up;  and  I  would  Avalk  about 
decked  out,  or  stand,  or  sit,  as  the  case  miglit  be. 

141 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

They  would  tell  nie:  '  This  is  what  thou  must 
say  ' — and  1  would  say  it.  Once  I  represented  a 
blind  man.  .  .  They  put  a  pea  under  each  of 
mv  eyelids.  .  .   So  thev  did!  " 

"  And  after  that,  what  wert  thou?  " 

"  After  that,  I  became  a  cook  again." 

"  ^Vhy  did  they  degrade  thee  to  the  position 
of  cook?  " 

"  Why,  my  brother  ran  away." 

"  Well,  and  what  wert  thou  with  the  father  of 
thy  first  mistress?  " 

"  Why,  I  discharged  various  duties:  first  I 
was  a  page,  a  falet,  a  shoemaker,  and  also  a 
whipper-in." 

"A  whipper-in?  ....  And  didst  thou  ride 
to  hounds?  " 

"I  did,  and  injured  myself:  I  fell  from  my 
horse,  and  hurt  the  horse.  Our  old  master  was 
veiy  severe;  he  ordered  me  to  be  flogged,  and  to 
be  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker  in  JNIoscow." 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  by  apprenticeship?  I 
don't  suppose  thou  wert  a  whipper-in  while  thou 
wert  a  child?  " 

"  I  was  over  twenty." 

"  And  what  sort  of  instruction  could  there  be 
at  twenty?  " 

"  Of  coiu'se,  if  the  master  ordered,  there  was 
no  help.  But,  luckily,  he  died  soon  after, — and 
they  brought  me  back  to  the  village." 

142 


I.GOFF 

"  But  when  diclst  thou  Ituni  the  art  of  cook- 
ery? 

Tlie  Twig  raised  his  thin,  sallow  face  a  little, 
and  laughed  aloud. 

"  Why,  does  one  learn  that? — But  even  the 
peasant  women  can  cook!  " 

"  Well,"  said  I : — "  thou  hast  seen  sights  in  thy 
day,  Ku'/nia!  And  what  dost  thou  do  now,  as 
fisherman,  if  there  are  no  fish  on  thy  mistress's 
estate?  " 

"  Wliy,  dear  little  father,  I  have  nothing  to 
complain  of.  And  thank  God  that  I  was  made 
the  lisherman.  For  the  mistress  ordered  just 
such  another  old  fellow  as  me — Andrei  Pupyr — 
to  the  paper-mill  as  water-carrier.  '  'T  is  sinful,' 
says  she,  '  to  eat  the  hread  of  idleness.'  .... 
And  Pupyr  was  counting  on  favour:  his  first 
cousin's  son  is  clerk  in  the  mistress's  office,  and 
he  had  promised  to  report  about  him  to  the  mis- 
tress, to  remind  her  of  him.  IMuch  he  reminded 
her!  .  .  .  And  Pupyr,  before  my  very  eyes, 
bowed  down  to  liis  cousin-nephew's  feet." 

"  Hast  thou  any  family?  Hast  thou  been  mar- 
ried? " 

"  No,  dear  little  father.  The  late  Tatyana  Va- 
silievna — the  kingdom  of  heaven  be  hers! — per- 
mitted no  one  to  marry.  God  forbid!  She  used 
to  say:  '  1  live  unwedded,  as  you  see.  What  self- 
indulgence!  who  needs  it?'". 

143 


ME.AIOIRS    OF   A    SPORTS^IAN 

"  On  what  dost  thou  hvc  now?  Dost  thou  re- 
ceive wages? " 

"  Wages,  indeed,  dear  little  father!  .  .  .  They 
give  me  my  victuals — and  thanks  to  Thee,  O 
Lord,  for  that  same!  I  'm  well  satisfied.  May 
God  prolong  our  mistress's  life!" 

Ermoliii  returned. 

"  The  boat  is  repaired,'' — he  said  surlily. — 
"  Go  fetch  thy  pole— thou! "  The  Twig  ran  for 
his  pole.  During  the  whole  time  of  my  conver- 
sation with  the  poor  old  man,  A^ladimir  the  hunts- 
man had  stared  at  him  with  a  scornful  smile. 

"  A  stupid  man,  sir," — he  said,  when  tlie  latter 
went  awav: — "an  entirely  uneducated  man,  a 
peasant,  sir,  nothing  more,  sir.  He  cannot  be 
called  a  house-serf,  sir  ...  he  was  just  brag- 
ging all  the  time,  sir.  .  .  .  Just  judge  for  your- 
self, sir,  how  could  he  be  an  actor,  sir?  You  have' 
deigned  to  bother  yourself  unnecessarily,  you 
have  condescended  to  chat  \\'ith  him,  sir!  " 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  we  were  seated  in 
the  punt.  (We  had  left  the  dog  in  the  cottage, 
under  the  oversight  of  the  coachman  legudiil.) 
We  were  not  very  comfortable,  but  hunters  are 
not  extremely  fastidious  folks.  The  Twig  stood 
at  the  blunt-pointed  stern,  and  "  shoved."  Vla- 
dimir and  I  sat  on  the  cross-seats  of  the  boat. 
Ermolai  placed  himself  in  front,  at  the  very  bow. 
In  spite  of  the  tow,  water  speedily  made  its 
a])])earance   under   our   feet.      Fortunately,   tlie 

144 


LGOFF 

weather  was  calm,  and  the  pond  was  as  quiet  as 
though  asleep. 

We  floated  on  rather  slowly.  The  old  man 
with  difficulty  pulled  his  long  pole  out  of  the 
ooze,  all  wound  ahout  with  the  green  threads 
of  the  submarine  sedges;  the  thick,  circular 
pads  of  tlie  marsli  lilies  also  impeded  the  progress 
of  our  boat.  iVt  last  we  reached  the  reeds, 
and  the  fun  began.  The  ducks  rose  noisily, 
"  tore  themselves  "  from  thfe  pond,  frightened  by 
our  unexpected  appearance  in  their  domain,  shots 
followed  them  thick  and  fast,  and  it  w^as  divert- 
ing to  see  those  bob-tailed  birds  turn  somersaults 
in  the  air  and  flop  down  heavily  on  the  water. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  we  did  not  retrieve  all  the 
ducks  we  shot :  the  slightly  wounded  dived ;  some, 
killed  outright,  fell  into  such  dense  clumps  of 
reeds  that  even  Ermohii's  carroty-hued  little 
eyes  could  not  detect  them;  but,  nevertheless,  by 
dinner-time  our  boat  was  flUed  to  overflowing" 
with  game. 

Vladimir,  to  the  great  amazement  of  Ermolai, 
proved  to  be  very  far  from  a  good  shot,  and  after 
each  unsuccessful  discharge  felt  surprised,  in- 
spected and  blew  into  bis  gun,  was  puzzled,  and, 
at  last,  explained  to  us  the  reason  why  he  had 
missed  his  aim.  Ermolai  shot,  as  usual,  with  tri- 
umphant success;  I,  quite  badly,  according  to 
my  wont.  The  Twig  gazed  at  us  with  the  eyes 
of  a  man  w^ho  has  been  in  the  service  of  the  gen- 

145 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

try  from  liis  youth  up,  shouted  now  and  then, 
"Yonder,  yonder  is  another  (hick!" — and  kept 
incessantly  scratcliin*;-  his  hack — not  with  his 
hands,  hut  with  his  shoulders,  which  he  set  in  mo- 
tion. The  weather  was  magnificent:  round, 
white  clouds  floated  hii>h  and  softly  ov^er  our 
heads,  and  were  clearly  reflected  in  the  water ;  the 
reeds  whispered  aroimd  us;  the  pond,  in  spots, 
glittered  like  steel  in  the  sunlight.  We  were  pre- 
paring to  return  to  the  village,  when,  all  of  a 
sudden,  a  decidedly  unpleasant  accident  hap- 
pened to  us. 

We  had  long  since  noticed  that  the  water  had 
been  gradually  but  constantly  gathering  in  our 
punt.  Vladimir  was  commissioned  to  bail  it  out, 
by  means  of  a  dip])er,  which  my  provident  hunts- 
man had  abstracted,  in  case  of  need,  from  a  peas- 
ant woman  who  was  not  watching.  Things  went 
on  as  they  shoidd,  until  Vladimir  forgot  his  duty. 
But  toward  the  end  of  the  hunt,  as  though  by  way 
of  farewell,  the  ducks  began  to  rise  in  such  flocks, 
that  we  hardly  had  time  to  load  our  guns.  In 
the  smoke  of  the  firing,  \\e  paid  no  attention  to 
the  condition  of  our  punt, — and  suddenly,  at  a 
violent  motion  on  the  i)art  of  Krmolai  (he  was 
trying  to  secure  a  duck  which  had  been  killed, 
and  was  bearing  his  full  weight  against  the  gun- 
wale), our  decrepit  vessel  careened,  filled  with 
water,  and  triumphantly  went  to  the  bottom, — 
fortunately,  at  a  spot  Avhere  the  water  was  not 

146 


LGOFF 

deep.  \Ve  cried  out,  but  it  was  already  too  late: 
a  moment  later,  we  were  standing  up  to  our  necks 
in  the  water,  surrounded  by  the  floating  carcasses 
of  the  dead  ducks.  I  cannot  now  recall  without 
laughter  the  frightened,  pallid  countenances  of 
my  c()ni[)anions  (probably,  my  own  face  was  not 
distinguished  by  its  high  colour  at  the  time, 
either)  ;  but  at  that  moment,  I  must  confess,  it 
never  entered  my  head  to  laugh.  Kach  of  us 
held  his  gun  over  his  head,  and  The  Twig,  proba- 
bly owing  to  his  habit  of  imitating  his  superiors, 
elevated  his  pole  on  high  also.  Ermolai  was  the 
first  to  break  tlie  silence. 

"Whew,  damn  it!" — he  muttered,  spitting 
into  the  water:  "  here  's  a  pretty  mess!  And  it 's 
all  thy  fault,  thou  old  devil!  " — he  added  angrily, 
turning  to  The  Twig: — "  what  sort  of  a  boat 
dost  thou  call  that?  " 

"  Forgive  me !  " — faltered  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,  and  thou  art  a  nice  one  too," — went  on 
my  liuntsman,  turning  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  Vladimir: — "  why  wert  not  thou  on  the  look- 
out? ^^'hy  didst  thou  not  bail?  thou,  thou, 
thou  .  .  .  ." 

But  Vladimir  was  already  past  retorting;  he 
was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  his  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing, and  he  was  smiling  in  a  wholly  senseless 
way.  AVhat  had  become  of  his  fine  language, 
his  sense  of  delicate  propriety,  and  his  own  dig- 
nity! 

147 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAX 

The  accursed  punt  rocked  \\eakly  under  our 
feet.  .  .  .  At  the  nionient  of  our  ship-wreck,  the 
water  had  seemed  to  ns  extremely  cold,  hut  we 
soon  got  used  to  it.  \Mien  the  first  alarm  suh- 
sided,  I  glanced  ahout  me:  all  around,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  ten  paces  from  us,  grew  reeds ;  far  away, 
over  their  tops,  the  shore  was  visible.  "  We  're 
in  a  had  plight!"  I  thought. 

"  AVhat  are  we  to  do?  " — I  asked  Elrmolai. 

"  Why,  here  now,  let 's  see;  we  can't  spend  the 
night  here," — he  replied. — "  Here  now,  hold  my 
gun," — he  said  to  Vladimii'. 

Vladimir  suhmissivelv  obeyed. 

"  I  '11  go  and  search  out  a  ford," — went  on 
Ermolai,  with  confidence,  as  though  in  every 
pond  there  must,  infallibly,  exist  a  ford, — took 
the  pole  from  The  Twig,  and  set  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  shore,  cautiously  probing  the  bottom. 

"  But  canst  thou  swim?  " — I  asked  him. 

"  Xo,  I  can't," — rang  out  his  voice,  from  be- 
hind the  reeds. 

"  Well,  then  he  '11  drown," — indifferently  re- 
marked The  Twig,  who  had  at  first  been  fright- 
ened, not  at  the  danger,  but  at  our  wrath,  and 
now,  with  perfect  composure,  merely  drew  a  long 
breath  from  time  to  time,  and,  apparently,  felt 
no  imperative  necessity  to  alter  his  situation. 

"  And  he  '11  perish  quite  uselessly,  sir," — 
added  Vladimir,  plaintively. 

Ermolai  did  not  returxi  for  more  than  an  hour. 

148 


LGOFF 

That  hour  seemed  an  eternity  to  us.  At  first  wt 
exchanged  shouts  with  him  very  assi(hiously;  tlien 
he  began  to  answer  our  calls  more  infrequently, 
and  at  last  he  fell  silent  altogether.  In  the  vil- 
lage the  bells  began  to  ring  for  vespers.  We  did 
not  talk  with  each  other,  we  even  tried  not  to  look 
at  each  other.  The  ducks  hovered  over  our 
heads;  some  prepared  to  alight  beside  us,  but 
suddenly  soared  aloft,  "  like  a  shot,"  as  the  say- 
ing is,  and  flew  quacking  away.  We  began  to 
grow  numb.  The  Twig  blinked  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  were  inclined  to  be  sleepy. 

At  last,  to  oiu*  indescribable  joy,  Ermolai  re- 
turned. 

"  Well,  what  now?" 

"  I  have  been  to  the  shore;  I  have  found  a 
ford." 

"  Let  us  go." 

We  wanted  to  set  off  on  the  instant;  but  first 
he  drew  a  rope  from  his  pocket  under  water, 
tied  the  dead  ducks  by  their  legs,  took  both 
ends  in  his  teeth,  and  strode  on  in  front;  Vladi- 
mir followed  him,  I  followed  Vladimir,  and  The 
Twig  closed  the  procession.  It  was  about  two 
hundred  paces  to  the  shore.  Ermolai  walked 
onward  boldly,  and  without  a  halt  (so  well  had 
he  taken  note  of  the  road ) ,  only  calling  out, 
from  time  to  time:  "  More  to  the  left, — ^there 's 
a  sink-hole  on  the  right!  "  or:  "  To  the  right, — 
there  on  the  left  j^ou  '11  stick  fast."  ....  At 

149 


ME]M01RS   OF   A   SPORTS^SIAN 

times  tlie  water  reached  our  throats,  and  twice 
the  poor  Twit>',  bein<r  lower  of  stature  than  the 
rest  of  us,  choked  and  emitted  bubbles. — "  Come, 
come,  come!" — shouted  Krmolai  menacingly  at 
him, — and  The  Twig  scrambled^  floundered 
about  witli  his  feet,  hopped,  and,  somehow  or 
other,  reached  a  shallower  spot;  but,  even  in  ex- 
tremity, he  could  not  bring  himself  to  clutch  the 
tail  of  my  coat.  Worn  out,  dirty,  soaked,  we 
reached  the  shore  at  last. 

Two  hours  later,  we  were  all  sitting,  dried  so 
far  as  that  was  possible,  in  a  large  hay-shed,  and 
preparing  to  sup.  legudiil,  extremely  slow  to 
start,  disinclined  to  move,  sagacious  and  sleepy, 
stood  at  the  gate,  and  assiduously  regaled  The 
Twig  with  snuff.  ( 1  have  noticed  that  coachmen 
in  Russia  speedily  strike  up  friendship.)  The 
Twig  snuffed  it  up  furiously  to  the  point  of 
nausea:  spat,  coughed,  and,  to  all  appearances, 
exj^erienced  great  satisfaction.  Vladimir  as- 
sumed a  languid  air,  lolled  his  head  on  one 
side,  and  said  little.  The  dogs  wagged  tlieir 
tails  with  exaggerated  briskness,  in  anticipation 
of  oatmeal  porridge;  the  horses  were  stamping 

and   neighing   under   the   shed The   sun 

had  set;  its  last  rays  dispersed  in  crimson  streaks; 
little  golden  clouds  spread  over  the  sky,  grow- 
ing ever  thinner  and  thinner,  like  a  fleece  washed 

and  combed Songs  resounded   in 

the  village. 

150 


VIII 

BYEZIIIN  ME.VDOAV 

It  was  a  magnificent  July  day,  one  of  those 
days  which  come  only  wlien  the  weather  has  been 
fair  for  a  long  time.  From  the  very  earliest 
dawn  the  sky  is  clear;  the  morning  glow  does  not 
flame  like  a  conflagration:  it  pours  itself  forth 
in  a  gentle  flush.  The  sun,  not  fiery,  not  red-hot, 
as  in  the  season  of  sultry  drought,  not  of  a  (hill 
crimson,  as  before  a  tempest,  but  bright,  and 
agreeably  radiant,  glides  up  peace f idly  under 
a  long,  narrow  cloudlet,  beams  freshly,  and 
plunges  into  its  lilac  mist.  The  thin  upper  edges 
of  the  outstretched  cloudlet  begin  to  flash  like 
darting  serpents;  their  gleam  resembles  the 
gleam  of  hammered  silver.  .  .  .  But  now  the 
sportive  rays  liave  burst  forth  once  more, — and 
the  mighty  luminary  rises  merrily  and  majesti- 
cally, as  though  flying.  In  the  neighbourhood  of 
midday,  a  multitude  of  round,  high-hanging 
clouds  make  their  appearance,  of  a  golden-grey 
hue,  with  tender  white  rims.  Like  islands,  scat- 
tered upon  a  river  wliich  lias  overflowed  to  an 
endless  extent,  and  streams  around  them  in  ])ro- 
foundly-transparent  branches  of  level  azure,  they 

151 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

liardly  stir  from  tlieir  places.  Further  away, 
toward  the  horizon,  they  move  to  meet  each  other, 
press  close  upon  one  another,  and  there  is  no  azure 
to  be  seen  betMeen  them,  but  they  themselves  are 
as  blue  as  the  sky:  they  are  all  permeated, 
tlu'ouoh  and  through,  with  liyht  and  warmth. 
The  colour  of  the  horizon,  a  liglit,  pale  lilac,  does 
not  undergo  any  change  all  day  long,  and  is  the 
same  all  the  way  round;  nowhere  does  it  grow 
darker,  nowhere  is  a  thunder-storm  brewing; 
here  and  there,  perhaps,  bluish  streaks  run  down- 
ward from  above,  or  a  barely  perceptible  shower 
sprinkles  down.  Toward  evening,  these  clouds 
vanish;  the  last  of  them,  blackish  and  undefined 
in  form,  like  smoke,  lie  in  rosy,  curling  wreaths 
over  against  the  setting  sun;  at  the  place  where 
it  has  gone  down  as  trancjuilly  as  it  rose  in  the 
sky,  a  scarlet  aureole  stands,  for  a  little  while, 
above  the  darkening  earth,  and,  flickering  softly, 
like  a  carefully  carried  tajier,  the  evening. star 
kindles  in  it.  On  such  days,  the  coloiu's  are  all 
softened,  bright  but  not  gaudy;  over  everything 
rests  the  imprint  of  a  certain  touching  gentle- 
ness. On  such  days  the  heat  is  sometimes  very 
great;  sometimes,  even,  it  is  "stewing  hot"  on 
the  slopes  of  the  fields;  but  the  breeze  chases 
away,  disperses  the  accumulated  sultriness,  cir- 
cling wind-gusts — an  unfailing  sign  of  settled 
weather — wander  in  tall  white  columns  of  dust 
along  the  roads  across  the  tilled  land.     The  dry, 

152 


byp:zitin  meadow 

pure  air  is  redolent  of  wormwood,  cnislitd  rye, 
buckwheat;  even  an  hour  before  nightfall,  you 
will  feel  no  dampness.  This  is  the  sort  of 
weatlier  which  the  farmer  craves  for  liarvesting 
his  grain. 

On  precisely  such  a  day,  I  was  once  hunting 
partridges  in  the  Tcliyornoye  distri^-t  of  tlic  I'lihi 
goverrmient.  I  had  found  and  shot  (juite  a  lot 
of  game;  my  well-filled  game-bag  was  cutting 
pitilessly  into  my  shoulder;  but  the  evening  glow 
had  already  died  out,  and  in  the  air,  which  was 
still  light,  although  no  longer  illuminated  by  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  the  chilly  shadows  were 
beginning  to  thicken  and  spread  abroad  when,  at 
last,  1  decided  to  return  home.  With  swift 
strides  1  traversed  a  long  "  square  "  of  second - 
growth  bushes,  climbed  a  hill,  and,  instead  of  the 
familiar  level  stretch  Avith  its  oak  copse,  which 
I  had  expected  to  see  on  my  right,  and  the  low- 
browed white  church  in  the  distance,  I  beheld  an 
entirely  different  set  of  places,  with  which  1  was 
not  acquainted.  At  my  feet  stretched  a  narrow^ 
vale;  directly  opposite,  a  dense  grove  of  aspen 
trees  rose  in  a  steep  wall.  1  halted  in  bewilder- 
ment, and  glanced  about  me '!Oho!"  I 

thought:  "  why,  I  have  lost  my  way  completely: 
I  have  kept  too  much  to  the  right,"'  and,  amazed 
at  my  mistake,  I  brisklv  descended  the  hill.  I 
was  immediately  beset  by  a  disagreeable,  motion- 
less dampness,  as  tliough  I  liad  entered  a  cellar: 

153 


MEMOIRS    OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

the  thick,  tall  grass  on  the  floor  of  the  vale,  all 
wet  tlirough,  gleamed  like  a  smooth,  white  table- 
cloth; somehow,  one  felt  uneasy  about  stepping 
on  it.  I  scram})le(l  up  the  opposite  slope  as 
alertly  as  possible,  keeping  to  the  left,  along  the 
aspen  grove.  Rats  were  already  flitting  above  its 
slumbering  crests,  mysteriously  circling  and  quiv- 
ering against  the  confusedly-clear  sky,  a  belated 
hawk  flew  past  smartly  and  directly  upward, 
hurrying  to  its  nest.  "  Now,  as  soon  as  I  turn 
yonder  corner,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  shall 
immediately  strike  the  road; — but  I  ha^'e  made 
a  loop  of  a  verst!  " 

At  last,  I  reached  the  corner  of  the  forest,  but 
there  was  no  road:  some  low-growing,  unfelled 
bushes  spread  out  broadly  in  front  of  me,  and 
beyond  them,  far,  far  away,  a  stretch  of  waste 
land  was  visible.  Again  I  came  to  a  standstill. 
"  What 's  the  meaning  of  this?  .  .  .  Why,  where 
am  I?  "—I  began  to  recall  how  and  where  I  had 
roamed  during  the  course  of  the  day.  .  .  "Eh! 
why,  these  are  the  Parakhinsko  bushes!"  I  ex- 
claimed at  last:  "  that  's  it  exactly!  that  must  be 
the  Sindyeevo  coj^se  yonder.  .  .  Rut  how  in  the 
world  did  I  get  here?  So  far?  ....  'T  is 
strange!   Xow  I  must  keep  to  the  right  again." 

I  went  to  the  right,  through  the  bushes.  In  the 
meantime  night  was  drawing  on,  and  growing- 
like  a  thunder-cloud;  it  seemed  as  though,  along 
Avith  the  nocturnal  exhalations,  the  darkness  rose 

154 


BYEZIIIN   JNIEADOW 

from  all  directions,  and  even  streamed  down 
from  on  high.  I  hit  upon  an  unbeaten,  over- 
grown path;  1  advanced  along  it,  attentively 
gazing  ahead.  Everything  around  was  swiftly 
growing  black  and  silent, — only  the  quails  ut- 
tered a  call  from  time  to  time.  A  small  night 
bird,  darting  inaudibly  and  low  on  its  soft  wings, 
almost  came  into  collision  with  me,  and  dived 
aside  in  affright.  X  emerged  upon  the  edge  of 
the  bush-growth,  and  wended  my  way  along  the 
boundary  strip  of  sward  between  two  fields.  Al- 
ready I  could  make  out  distant  objects  only  with 
difficulty:  the  field  gleamed  dimly  white  around 
me ;  beyond  it,  moving  nearer  with  every  passing- 
moment  in  huge  masses,  sin-ged  up  the  grim 
gloom.  jNly  footsteps  resounded  dully  in  the 
chilly  air.  The  sky,  wliich  had  paled,  began  to 
turn  blue  again, — but  it  was  the  nocturnal  blue 
now.    Tiny  stars  began  to  twinkle,  to  stir  in  it. 

That  which  I  had  been  on  the  point  of  taking 
for  a  grove,  turned  out  to  be  a  dark,  round 
hillock.  "  But  where  am  I,  then?  "  I  repeated, 
once  more,  aloud,  halted  for  the  third  time,  and 
stared  inquiringly  at  my  English,  yellows-spotted 
hound,  Dianka,  positively  the  cleverest  of  all 
foiu'-footed  creatures.  But  the  cleverest  of 
quadrupeds  only  wagged  her  tail,  ])linked  her 
weary  eyes  dolefully,  and  gave  me  no  practical 
advice.  I  felt  ashamed  in  her  presence,  and 
rushed  desperately  onward,  as  though  I  had  sud- 

155 


:ME3iUlKS    OF   A    SrORTS.MAN 

(Icnly  di\ined  wliitlier  I  ouglit  to  go,  skirted 
the  hilloek,  and  found  myself  in  a  shallow  de- 
pression, tilled  all  around.  A  strange  feeling  im- 
mediately took  possession  of  me.  This  hollow 
had  almost  the  form  of  a  regular  kettle,  with 
sloping  sides;  on  its  bottom  several  large,  white 
boidders  reared  themselves  on  end, — they  seemed 
to  Iiave  crawled  down  there  to  hold  a  secret  con- 
ference, and  the  place  was  so  deaf  and  dumb,  the 
sky  hung  over  it  so  flatly,  so  dejectedly,  that  my 
heart  contracted  within  me.  Some  sort  of  a 
small,  wild  animal  was  whining  weakly  and  piti- 
fully among  the  boulders.  1  made  haste  to  re- 
treat behind  the  hillock.  Up  to  tliis  moment,  I 
had  not  yet  lost  hope  of  finding  my  way  liome; 
but  now  I  became  definitively  convinced  that  I 
was  completely  lost,  and  without  making  the 
slightest  further  effort  to  recognise  mv  sur- 
roundings,  which  were  almost  entirely  drowned 
in  the  mist,  I  walked  straiglit  ahead,  guided  by 
the  stars,  at  random.  ...  I  continued  to  walk 
thus  for  al)out  half  an  hour,  with  difficulty  put- 
ting one  foot  before  the  other.  It  seemed  to  me 
that,  never  since  1  was  born,  had  I  ])een  in  such 
desert  places:  not  a  single  light  twinkled  any- 
where, not  a  sound  was  audible.  One  sloping  hill 
succeeded  another,  fields  stretched  out  after 
fields  in  endless  succession,  bushes  seemed  faiily 
to  spring  out  of  tlie  eartli  in  front  of  my  very 
nose.    I  kept  walking  on  and  on,  and  was  already 

1.56 


BYEZHIX   MP:AD0\V 

making  ready  to  lie  down  somewhere  until  the 
morning,  when,  suddenly.  I  I'ound  myself  on  the 
brink  of  a  frightful  ahvss. 

I  hastily  drew  baek  my  loot,  which  was  thrust 
forward,  and  athwart  the  barely  penetrable 
gloom  of  night  I  tlescried,  far  down  beneath  me, 
a  vast  ravine.  A  broad  river  swept  around  it  in 
.a  semicircle  ^vllich  swerved  away  from  me:  steely 
gleams  of  water,  flashing  forth  rarely  and  dimly, 
designated  its  course.  The  hill  on  which  I  foimd 
myself  descended  in  an  almost  perpendicular 
precipice;  its  huge  outlines  stood  out,  darkling, 
against  the  bluish  aerial  waste,  and  directly  be- 
neath me,  in  the  angle  formed  by  the  precipice 
and  the  level  plain,  beside  the  river,  which,  at  that 
point,  stood  like  a  dark,  motionless  mirror,  be- 
neath the  very  steep  face  of  the  hill,  burned  and 
smoked,  side  bv  side,  two  fires.  Around  them 
people  were  swarming,  shadows  were  flickering, 
the  front  half  of  a  small,  curly  head  was  at  times 
brilliantly  illuminated.  .  . 

I  recognised,  at  last,  whither  I  had  come.  This 
meadow  is  renowned  in  our  vicinity  under  the 

name   of   the   Byezhin    Meadow But 

there  was  no  possibility  of  getting  home,  es- 
pecially by  night;  my  legs  were  giving  way  be- 
neath me  with  weariness.  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  approach  the  fires,  and.  in  the  company  of  the 
people,  whom  I  took  for  drovers,  to  await  the 
dawn.    I  made  a  successful  descent,  but  before  I 

157 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

could  release  from  mv  hand  the  last  bou^rh  I  had 
clutched,  two  large,  white,  shaggy  dogs  flew  at 
me,  barking  viciously.  Ringing  childish  voices 
resounded  around  the  tires;  two  or  three  little 
boys  rose  hastily  from  the  ground.  They  ran 
toward  me,  called  off  the  dogs,  who  had  been 
particularly  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  my 
Dianka,  and  I  approached  them. 

1  had  made  a  mistake  in  taking  the  persons 
who  were  sitting  round  those  fires  for  drovers. 
They  were  simply  peasant  children  from  the 
neighbouring  village,  who  were  herding  the 
horses.  In  our  parts,  during  the  hot  sunmier 
weather,  the  horses  are  driven  out  to  graze  in  the 
fields  at  night:  by  day,  the  flies  and  gadflies 
would  give  them  no  jjcace.  It  is  a  great  treat  for 
the  peasant  lads  to  drive  the  herd  out  at  eventide 
and  drive  them  home  at  dawn.  Seated,  capless, 
and  in  old  half -coats,  on  the  most  restive  nags, 
they  dash  on  with  merry  w^hoops  and  shouts,  with 
dangling  arms  and  legs,  bouncing  high  aloft, 
with  ringing  laughter.  The  light  dust  rises  in  a 
column  and  blows  along  the  road;  far  away,  the 
vigorous  trampling  of  hoofs  is  borne  on  the  air, 
the  horses  race  onward,  pricking  up  their  ears; 
in  front  of  all,  flirting  its  tail,  and  incessantly 
changing  foot,  gallops  a  shagg}^  reddish-yellow 
beast,  with  burdock  burs  in  its  tangled  mane. 

I  told  the  little  lads  that  I  had  lost  my  way, 
and    sat    down    with    them.      They    asked    me 

158 


BYEZHIN  MEADOW 

whence  I  had  come,  fell  silent,  drew  aside.  We 
chatted  a  little.  I  lay  down  nnder  a  gnawed 
bush,  and  began  to  look  about  me.  It  was  a  won- 
derful picture;  around  tlie  fires  quivered,  and,  as 
it  were,  flickered,  resting  against  the  darkness,  a 
round,  reddish  reflection;  the  flame,  flashing  up 
now  and  then,  cast  swift  gleams  beyond  the  limit 
of  that  circle;  a  thin  tongue  of  light  would  lick 
the  bare  boughs  of  the  scrub-willows  and  in- 
stantly vanish  ;^long,  sharp-pointed  shadows, 
breaking  forth,  for  a  moment,  in  their  turn, 
rushed  up  to  the  very  fires:  the  gloom  wrestled 
with  the  light.  Sometimes,  when  the  flame 
burned  more  feebly,  and  the  circle  of  light  con- 
tracted, a  horse's  head  would  suddenly  thrust 
itself  forward  out  of  the  invading  gloom, — a 
brown  horse,  with  a  sinuous  white  mark  on  the 
forehead,  or  all  white, — and  gaze  attentively  and 
dully  at  us,  briskly  chewing  a  long  tuft  of  grass 
the  while,  and,  lowering  again,  immediately  dis- 
appear. All  that  was  audible  was,  that  it  con- 
tinued to  chew  and  snort.  From  the  illuminated 
place,  it  was  difficult  to  discern  what  was  going 
on  in  the  darkness,  and,  consequently,  everything 
near  at  hand  seemed  enveloped  in  an  almost  black 
curtain;  but  further  away,  toward  the  horizon, 
hills  and  forests  could  be  dimly  descried,  in  long 
splashes.  The  dark,  pure  sky  stood  solemnly  and 
boundlessly  high  above  us,  with  all  its  mysterious 
majesty.     The  breast  felt  sweet  oppression  as  it 

159 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

inhaled  that  pecuhar,  fresh  and  enervatino-  fra- 
grance— the  fragrance  of  a  Russian  summer 
night.  Hardly  a  sound  was  audi])le  round  ahout. 
.  .  .  Only  now  and  then,  in  the  near-by  riyer,  a 
large  fish  would  s})lasli  with  sudden  sonorousness, 
and  the  reeds  upon  the  banks  would  rustle  faintly, 
barely  rocked  ])y  a  truant  waye.  .  .  .  The  fires 
alone  crackled  softly. 

The  little  boys  sat  around  them;  there,  also, 
sat  the  two  dogs,  ^^'llo  would  haye  liked  to  deyour 
me.  For  a  long  time,  they  could  not  reconcile 
themselyes  to  my  presence,  and,  sleepily  screwing 
up  their  eyes,  and  casting  sidelong  glances  at 
the  fire,  they  growled,  now  and  then,  with  the 
consciousness  of  their  own  dignity;  first  they 
growled,  and  then  whined  faintly,  as  though 
they  regretted  the  impossibility  of  fulfilling  their 
desire.  There  were  fiye  lads  in  all :  Fedva,  Pav- 
lusha,  Iliusha,  Kostya,  and  Vanya.  (I  learned 
their  names  from  their  conyersation,  and  intend 
to  introduce  them  at  once  to  the  reader. ) 

You  would  haye  said  that  the  first,  the  oldest 
of  them  all,  Fedva,  was  fourteen.  He  was  a 
graceful  lad,  with  handsome,  delicate,  and  rather 
small  features,  curly  fair  hair,  light  eyes,  and  a 
constant,  half -merry,  half-abstracted  smile.  He 
belonged,  by  all  the  tokens,  to  a  rich  family,  and 
Avent  out  thus  into  tlie  fields,  not  through  neces- 
sity, but  because  he  wished  it,  for  amusement. 
He  wore  a  gay  print  shirt  with  a  yellow  border; 

160 


BYEZHIN  :MEAD0W 

ii  siiuill,  new  peasant's  long-coat,  lianging  fron» 
his  shoulders,  the  sleeves  unused,  hardly  held  in 
place  on  liis  narrow  shoulders;  from  his  sk\'-l)lue 
girdle  hung  a  small  comb.  His  boots,  with 
narrow  leg-pieces,  were  really  his  boots — not  his 
father's.  The  second  lad,  Pavliisha,  had  tangled, 
black  hair,  grey  eyes,  broad  cheek-bones,  a  ])ale, 
pockmarked  face,  a  large,  but  regular  mouth ;  his 
whole  head  was  huge  as  a  beer-kettle,  as  the  ex- 
pression is,  his  body  stubby,  uncouth.  He  was 
a  homely  little  fellow, — tliere  's  no  denying  that ! 
— but,  nevertheless,  he  pleased  me:  his  gaze  was 
very  sensible  and  direct,  and  power  resounded  in 
his  Aoice.  His  garments  were  nothing  to  boast 
of:  they  consisted  of  a  plain  hemp-cloth  shirt 
and  patched  trousers.  The  face  of  the  third, 
lliusJia,  was  rather  insignificant;  hook-nosed, 
long,  mole-eyed,  it  expressed  a  sort  of  stupid, 
sickly  anxiety;  his  tiglitly  compressed  lips  did 
not  move,  his  knitted  brows  did  not  unbend, — he 
seemed  to  be  always  screening  his  eyes  from  the 
fire.  His  yellow,  almost  white  hair  stuck  out  in 
pointed  tufts  from  beneath  a  low-crowned,  felt 
cap,  which  he  was  incessantly  pulling  down  over 
his  ears  with  both  hands.  He  wore  new  linden- 
bark  sli})pers  and  leg-cloths;  a  thick  cord,  wound 
thrice  around  his  body,  carefully  confined  his 
neat,  black  coat.  He  and  Pavliisha  were,  appar- 
ently, not  over  twelve  years  of  age.  The  fourth, 
Kostya,  a  little  lad  of  ten,  excited  my  curiosity 

161 


ME:M01KS   of   a   SrOllTSJSIAN 

by  his  thoughtful  and  iiichuicholy  gaze.  His 
whole  face  was  small,  thin,  freckled,  pointed  be- 
low, like  that  of  a  squirrel;  his  lips  were  hardly 
discernible;  but  his  large,  black  eyes,  shining  with 
a  liquid  gleam,  produced  a  strange  impression: 
they  seemed  to  want  to  express  something  for 
which  the  tongue — his  tongue,  at  all  events — had 
no  words.  He  was  short  of  stature,  of  fragile 
build,  and  dressed  quite  poorly.  At  first,  I  came 
near  not  noticing  the  last  one,  Vanya:  he  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  peaceably  curled  up  under 
an  angular  rug,  and  oidy  now  and  then  did 
he  thrust  out  from  beneath  it  his  curly  chest- 
nut head.  This  boy  was,  at  most,  seven  years  of 
age. 

So  I  lay  there  under  a  bush,  a})art,  and  sur- 
veyed the  little  lads.  A  small  kettle  hung  over 
one  of  the  fires:  in  it  they  were  boiling  "  'taties." 
Pavlusha  was  watching  it,  and,  kneeling,  thrust 
a  chip  into  the  frothing  water.  Fedya  was  lying 
propped  on  his  elbow,  with  the  tails  of  his  coat 
spread  apart.  Iliusha  was  sitting  beside  Kostya, 
and  also  screwing  up  his  eyes  intently.  Kostya 
had  dropped  his  head  a  little,  and  was  gazing  oil' 
somewhere  into  the  distance.  A'anya  did  not  stir 
imder  his  rug.  1  pretended  to  be  asleep. 
Gradually,  the  boys  began  to  talk  again. 

At  first  they  prattled  about  one  thing  and  an- 
other, about  the  toils  of  the  morrow,  about  the 
horses;  but,  all  of  a  sudden,  Fedya  turned  to 

162 


BYEZTTTN  MEADOW 

Iliiisha  and,  as  though  renewing  an  interrupted 
conversation,  asked  him: 

"  Well,  and  what  wert  ihou  saying — hast  thou 
seen  the  domovoy?  "  ^ 

"  No,  I  have  not  seen  him,  and  it  is  n't  possible 
to  see  him," — replied  Iliusha,  in  a  hoarse,  weak 
voice,  whose  sound  precisely  matched  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face.     "  I  heard  liim And  1 

was  n't  the  only  one." 

"  And  whereabouts  on  your  premises  does  he 
liaunt?  " — inquired  Pavlusha. 

"  In  the  old  stuff -chest  room."  ^ 

"  But  do  you  go  to  the  mill?  " 

"  Of  course  we  do.  IVIy  brother  Avdiushka 
and  I  are  plater-boys." 

"  See  there,  now — you  are  mill-hands !  "  .  .  .  . 

"  Well,  and  how  didst  thou  come  to  hear 
him?  " — asked  Fedya. 

"  Why,  this  way.  It  happened  that  brother 
Avdiushka  and  I,  along  with  Feodor  :Mikhyeev- 
sky  and  the  squint-eyed  Ivashka,  and  another 
Ivashka,  who  is  from  the  Red  Hills,  and  still  an- 
other Ivashka  SukliorukofF,  and  other  boys  also; 
there  were  ten  of  us  lads  in  all, — the  whole  gang, 
that  is  to  say;  well,  and  it  happened  that  we  had 
to  pass  the  night  in  the  stufF-chest  room, — that  is 
to  say,  it  did  n't  happen  so,  but  NazarofiP,  the 

*  House-sprite,  like   the   banshee. — Traxslator. 
=  The  huiiding,  in  paper-mills,  where  tlie  pajier  is  bailed  out  of 
the  stuflF-chests.     It  is  close  to  the  dam,  under  tlie  wheel. 

163 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

overseer,  forbade  iis  lo  go  home:  says  he: 
'  What 's  the  good,'  says  he,  '  of  3^011  boys  trudg- 
ing home ;  there  's  a  lot  of  work  for  to-morrow, 
so  don't  you  go  home,  my  lads/  And  so  we 
stayed,  and  all  lay  down  together,  and  Avdi- 
lishka  savs,  '  ^Vell,  bovs,  and  what  if  the  domo- 
voy  should  come? '  .  .  .  .  And  before  lie,  Avdyei 
that  is,  had  finished  speaking,  some  one  suddenly 
walked  across  over  our  heads;  but  we  were  Ivin^' 
down-stairs,  and  lie  was  walking  up-stairs,  by 
the  wheel.  We  hear  him  walking,  and  the 
boards  fairly  bend  under  him,  and  crack;  now 
he  has  j^assed  over  our  heads;  the  water  suddenly 
begins  to  roar  and  roar  against  the  wheel;  the 
wheel  begins  to  bang  and  bang,  and  to  turn;  but 
the  sluice-gate  is  shut.  ^\''e  wonder: — who  can 
have  raised  it,  so  that  tlie  water  comes  tlirough.? 
But  the  wheel  went  on  turning  and  turning,  and 
then  stopped.  Then  tliat  person  went  to  the  door 
up-stairs  again,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs, 
and  came  down  as  though  he  were  in  no  liurry; 

the  steps  fairly  groaned  beneath  him Well, 

the  person  came  to  our  door,  waited,  waited, — 
and  suddenly  the  door  flew  wide  ojieii.  We 
started  up  in  terror,  we  looked — nothing!  .... 
All  of  a  sudden,  behold,  the  mould  at  one  of  the 
stuft'-chests  began  to  move,  rose  up,  tii)pe(l,  and 
floated,  floated  like  that,  through  the  air,  as 
though  some  one  were  rinsing  with  it,  and  tlien 
went  back  to  its  i)lace.     Then,  at  anotlier  chest, 

164 


BYEZTIIX  ^MEADOW 

the  hook  was  taken  from  the  nail,  and  put  back 
on  the  nail  again;  then  some  one  seemed  to  go  to 
the  door,  and  suddenly  began  to  cough  and  hawk, 

like  some  sort  of  sheep,  and  so  noisily 

We  all  tumbled  together  m  a  heap,  and  crawled 

under  one  another How  scared  we  were 

that  time!  " 

"  You  don't  say  so!  " — remarked  Pavel. — 
"  What  made  him  cough?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  the  dampness,  perhaps." 

All  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Well," — inquired  Fedya: — "  are  the  'taties 
done?  " 

Pavliisha  felt  of  them. 

"  No,  they  're  still  raw Whew,  what  a 

splash," — he  added,  tin'ning  his  face  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  river: — "  it  must  be  a  pike  ....  and 
yonder  is  a  shooting  star." 

"  See  here,  fellows,  I  11  tell  you  something," — 
began  Kostya,  in  a  thin  little  voice: — -"Listen 
to  what  daddy  told  me  the  other  day." 

"  Come  on,  we  're  listening," — said  Fedya, 
M'ith  a  patronising  mien. 

"  Of  course,  you  know  Gavrilo,  the  village 
carpenter?  " 

"  Well,  yes;  we  do." 

"  But  do  you  know  why  he  is  always  such  a 
melancholy  man:  always  silent,  you  know?  This 
is  why  he  is  so  melancholy:  Once  on  a  time,  fel- 
lows, says  my  daddy,  he  went  to  the  forest  for 

165 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

nuts.  So  lie  \veiit  to  the  forest  for  nuts,  and 
got  lost;  God  knows  where  he  came  out.  So 
he  walked  and  walked,  fellows, — but  no!  he 
could  n't  find  the  road!  and  niglit  was  already  at 
hand.  So  he  sat  down  under  a  tree;  '  I  11  just 
Mait  until  morning,'  says  he  to  himself, — so  he 
sat  down,  and  fell  into  a  doze.  And  while  he  was 
sleeping,  he  suddenly  heard  some  one  calling 
him.  He  looks — no  one.  Again  he  fell  asleep, 
— again  came  the  call.  Again  he  looks  and  looks 
around:  and  in  front  of  him,  on  a  bough,  sits  a 
water-nymph;  she  rocks  to  and  fro,  and  calls  him 
to  her,  while  she  herself  is  dying  with  laughter. 
And  she  laughs  so!  .  .  .  .And  the  moon  was  shin- 
ing strongly, — so  strongly,  clearly  is  the  moon 
shining,  that  everything  is  visible,  my  boys.  So 
she  calls  him,  and  sits  there  on  the  bough,  all 
brilliant,  and  white,  just  like  a  roach  or  a  gud- 
geon,— or  a  carp,  also,  is  whitish  and  silvery  like 

that Gavrilo    the    carpenter    fairly    fell 

back  in  a  swoon,  fellows;  but  she,  you  know, 
shrieked  with  laughter,  and  kept  beckoning  him 
to  her  with  her  hand,  like  this.  Gavrilo  tried  to 
rise,  tried  to  obey  the  water-nymph,  fellows,  but, 
you  see,  the  Lord  suggested  something  to  him: 
he  just  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  himself. 
.  .  .  And  how  hard  he  found  it  to  make  that  sign 
of  the  cross,  fellows!  He  says:  '  jNly  hand  was 
simply  like  stone,  it  would  n't  move.  .  .  .  Akh, 
thou  wicked  nymph,  ah!' — So,  fellows,  when  he 

100 


BYEZHIN  MEADOW 

made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  that  water-sprite 
ceased  to  laugh,  and  suddenly  hegan  to  weep,  as 
it  were.  .  .  .  She  weeps,  fellows,  and  wipes  her 
eyes  with  her  hair,  and  her  hair  is  as  green  as  thy 
hemp.  So  Gavrilo  stared  and  stared  at  her,  and 
hegan  to  question  her:  '  Why  weepest  thou,  thou 
imp  of  the  forest? '  But  the  water-sprite  says  to 
him:  '  Thou  shouldst  not  have  crossed  thyself,  O 
man,'  says  she;  'thou  nnghtest  have  lived  with 
me  to  the  end  of  thy  days;  and  I  am  weeping,  I 
am  pining  away,  hecause  thou  hast  crossed  thy- 
self; and  'tis  not  I  alone,  who  shall  phie:  pine 
thou,  also,  until  the  end  of  thy  daj's.'  Then  she 
vanished,  fellows,  and  Gavrilo  immediately  un- 
derstood how  he  was  to  get  out  of  the  forest.  .  .  . 
Only,  from  that  time  forth,  he  goes  ahout  always 
in  that  melancholy  way." 

"Ekha!" — remarked  Fedya,  after  a  brief  si- 
lence : — "  but  how  can  such  a  wicked  forest 
demon  spoil  a  Christian  soul, — he  ought  n't  to 
have  listened  to  her!  " 

"Oh,  go  along  with  you!" — said  Kostya. — 
"  And  Gavrilo  said  she  had  such  a  thin,  wailing 
voice,  like  a  toad's." 

"Did  thy  dad  narrate  that  himself?" — went 
on  Fedya. 

"  Yes,  he  did.  I  was  lying  on  the  platform 
over  the  oven,  and  heard  everything." 

"A  wonderful  affair!  Why  should  he  be 
melancholy?    ....    Why,   you  know,   if  she 

167 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPOKTSMAX 

called  him,  't  was  because  '  she  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  hini.'  " 

Yes,  she  had  taken  a  fancy  to  hmi!  " — ])ut  in 
Iliusha. — -"  Of  course,  slie  wanted  to  tickle  him, 
— that 's  what  she  Nvanted.  That  's  wliat  they  do, 
tliose  water-nymphs." 

"  W^hy,  and  there  must  be  water-nymphs  here, 
too," — remarked  Fedya. 

"No," — replied  Kostya: — "this  is  a  clean 
place,  a  free  place;  for  one  thing,  the  river  is 
liard  by." 

All  fell  silent.  Suddenly,  somewhere  in  the 
far  distance,  there  rang  out  a  long-drawn,  sonor- 
ous, almost  moaning  sound,  one  of  those  incom- 
prehensible nocturnal  noises,  which  sometimes 
well  up  in  the  midst  of  profound  stillness,  rise 
aloft,  hang  suspended  in  the  air,  and  slowly  dis- 
perse, at  last,  as  though  they  died  away.  You 
strain  your  ear, — and  it  seems  as  though  there 
were  nothing,  yet  it  is  tinkling.  It  seemed  as 
though  some  one  had  shouted  for  a  long,  long 
time,  at  the  very  horizon,  and  some  one  else  had 
answered  his  shout  from  the  forest  with  a  thin, 
shrill  laugh,  and  a  weak,  hissing  whistle  flew 
with  Hghtning  speed  along  the  river.  The  little 
lads  exchanged  glances,  and  shuddered. 

"  The  power  of  the  cross  be  with  us! " — whis- 
pered Ilya. 

"  Kkh,  you  simpletons!  " — cried  Pavel:  "  what 
are  you  frightened  at?  T.ook  here,  the  'taties  are 

i(;8 


BYEZITTX  INIEADOW 

boiled  soft."  (They  moved  up  round  the  little 
kettle,  and  began  to  eat  the  snioking-hot  pota- 
toes; Vanya  alone  did  not  stir.)  "  What's  the 
matter  with  thee?  " — said  Pavel. 

But  he  did  not  erawl  forth  from  under  his 
linden-bast  rug.  The  little  kettle  was  speedily 
emptied  completely. 

"  But  have  you  heard,  my  lads," — began  lli- 
usha: — "  wliat  happened  the  other  day  at  Var- 
navitzy?  " 

"  On  the  dam,  thou  meanest?  " — asked  Fedya. 

"  Yes,  yes,  on  the  dam,  the  broken  dam.  'T  is 
an  unhallowed  place,  you  know,  so  unhallowed, 
and  so  God-forsaken.  Everywhere  around  there 
are  such  ravines  and  precipices,  and  down  the 
precipices  snakes  breed." 

"  Well,  what  happened?  Go  ahead  and  tell  us." 

"  Why,  this  is  what  happened.  Perhaps  thou 
dost  not  know  it,  Fedya,  but  we  have  a  drow^ned 
man  buried  there,  and  he  was  drowned  long,  long 
ago,  when  the  pond  was  still  deep;  only  his  grave 
is  still  visible,  and  even  that  is  barely  visible :  't  is 

just  a  tiny  mound Well,  the  other  day, 

the  manager  calls  up  Ermfl  the  dog-keeper;  says 
he:  '  Go  to  the  post-office,  Ermil.'  Ermil  always 
does  ride  to  the  post-office:  he  has  starved  off  all 
his  dogs :  that 's  why  they  don't  live  with  him,  and  ^ 
they  never  did  live  w  ith  him,  anyway,  but  he  's 
a  fine  whipper-in,  he  has  all  the  gifts.  So  Ennil 
rode  off  for  the  mail,  and  he  lagged  in  the  town, 

169 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTS^NIAN 

and  lie  was  {Iriiiik  when  lie  started  to  ride  back. 
And  tlie  night  was  a  briglit  night:  the  moon  was 
shining.  .  .  .  So  Ermil  is  .riding  across  the  dam: 
his  road  hiy  that  way.  And  as  he  is  ri(hng  ak)ng, 
hnntsman  Ermil  sees,  on  tlie  (h-owned  man's 
grave,  a  young  ram  stroUing  about, — such  a 
white,  curly,  prett}^  httle  ram.  So  Ermil  thinks 
to  himself:  '  I  '11  catch  him, — why  should  he  be 
wasted  like  this?' — so  he  slipped  off  his  horse, 
and  took  him  in  his  hands.  .  .  .  But  the  ram 
did  n't  mind  it  at  all.  So  Ermil  goes  to  his  horse, 
but  the  horse  opens  his  eyes  wide  and  stares,  and 
neighs  and  tosses  his  head;  but  he  untied  it, 
mounted,  and  the  ram  with  .him,  and  started  off 
again:  he  held  the  young  ram  in  front  of  him. 
He  looked  at  it,  and  the  ram  just  stared  him 
straight  in  the  eye.  He  began  to  feel  uneasy, 
did  Ermil  the  huntsman :  '  I  don't  remember  ever 
to  have  heard,'  savs  he,  '  that  rams  stared  folks 
in  the  eye  in  this  fashion ;  '  however,  he  did  n't 
mind;  he  began  to  stroke  its  fur, — and  says  he: 
'  Ba-a,  ba-a!'  And  all  of  a  sudden,  the  ram 
showed  his  teeth,  and  savs  to  him  the  same: 
'  Ba-a,  ba-a!  .  .   .'  " 

Before  the  narrator  could  utter  this  last  word, 
the  two  dogs  suddenly  rose  with  one  impulse, 
rushed  away  from  the  fire,  barking  convulsively, 
and  vanished  into  the  darkness.  All  the  boys 
were  thoroughly  frightened.  \'^anya  jumped 
out  from  under  liis  mat.      Pa\  h'lsiika  flew  after 

170 


EYEZTTIN  MEADOW 

the  dogs  with  a  yell.  Tlieir  barking  swiftly  re- 
treated into  the  distance.  .  .  .  The  uneasy  run- 
ning to  and  fro  of  the  startled  herd  of  horses 
was  audible.  Pavlusha  shouted  loudly:  "  Grey! 
Beetle!" In  a  few  moments,  the  bark- 
ing ceased;  Pavel's  voice  was  already  wafted  to 

us  from  afar A  little  more  time  elapsed; 

the  boys  exchanged  glances  of  bewilderment,  as 
though  anticipating  that  something  was  about 
to  happen.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  hoof-beats  of  a 
galloping  horse  became  audible;  it  stopped  ab- 
ruptly at  the  very  fire,  and  Pavlusha,  who  had 
been  clinging  to  its  mane,  leaped  from  its  back. 
The  two  dogs  also  sprang  into  the  circle  of  light, 
and  immediately  sat  down,  lolling  out  their  red 
tongues. 

"  What  was  it  yonder?  What  was  the  mat- 
ter? " — asked  the  boys. 

"  Nothing,"  —  replied  Pavel,  waving  his 
hand  toward  the  horse: — "'twas  just  that  the 
dogs  scented  something.  1  thought  it  was  a 
wolf," — he  added  in  an  indifferent  voice, 
})reathing  fast,  with  the  full  capacity  of  his 
chest. 

I  involuntarily  admired  Pavlusha.  He  was 
very  handsome  at  that  moment.  His  ugly  face, 
animated  by  the  swift  ride,  l)lazed  with  dashing 
gallantry  and  firm  resolution.  Without  even  a 
switch  in  his  hand,  he  had  darted  off  alone,  by 
night,   without   the   slightest   hesitation,   to   en- 

171 


ME^rOTRS    OF   A    SPORTS^IAN 

counter  a  uolf "  What  a  splendid  hoy!" 

I  tliought,  as  1  gazed  at  him. 

"  And  have  you  seen  them, — the  wolves,  I 
mean?" — asked  cowardly  Kostya. 

"  There  are  always  a  lot  of  them  here,"— re- 
plied  Pavel: — "  but  they  are  uneasy  only  in 
winter." 

Again  he  curled  up  in  front  of  the  fire.  As 
he  seated  himself  on  the  ground,  he  dropped  his 
liand  on  the  shaggy  neck  of  (jue  of  the  dogs,  and 
for  a  long  time  the  delighted  animal  did  not 
turn  its  head,  as  it  gazed  sidelong,  with  grateful 
pride,  at  Pavlusha. 

Vanya  cuddled  up  under  his  mat  again. 

"  What  were  those  horrors  thou  wert  narrat- 
ing to  us,  Iliusha?  " — began  Fedya,  to  whose  lot, 
as  the  son  of  a  wealthy  peasant,  it  fell  to  act  the 
part  of  leader  (he  himself  said  very  little,  as 
though  he  were  afraid  of  lowering  his  dignity). 
— "  And  \  was  the  Fvil  One  who  ])rompted  the 
dogs  to  set  up  that  barking.  .  .  .  But,  in  fact, 
I  have  lieard  that  that  locality  of  yours  is  unhal- 
lowed." 

"  Varnavitzv?  ....  I  should  sav  so!  unhal- 
lowed  the  worst  \\i\\\  The  old  master  has  been 
seen  there  more  than  once,  they  say — the  de- 
ceased  master.  He  wears  a  long-skirted  dress- 
ing-gown, they  say,  and  keeps  sighing  all  the 
while,  as  though  he  were  hunting  for  something 
on  the  ground.     Grandaddy  Trofiniitch  met  him 

172 


BYEZIIIX   MKAUOW 

once. — '  What  is  it,  dear  little  father,  Ivan  Ivan- 
itcli,'  says  he,  '  that  thou  art  searching  for  on  the 
ground? ' " 

"He  asked  him  that?" — interrupted  the  as- 
tounded Fedya. 

"  Yes,  he  asked  him." 

"  Well,  Trofimitch  is  a  gallant  fellow  to  do 
that.  .  .  .  Well,   and   what  happened?" 

"  '  I  'm  looking  for  the  saxifrage,'  says  he. 
And  he  talks  in  such  a  dull,  dull  voice  :^ — '  The 
saxifrage.'  ^ — '  And  what  dost  thou  want  of 
saxifrage,  dear  little  father,  Ivan  Ivanitch? ' — 
'  jNIy  grave  is  crushing  me,  crushing  me,  Trofi- 
mitch ;  I  want  to  get  out,  to  get  out '  " 

"What  a  fellow!" — remarked  Fedya; — 
"  Probably  he  had  n't  lived  long  enough." 

"  What  a  marvel!  "  said  Kostya: — "  I  thought 
dead  folks  could  be  seen  only  on  Relatives'  Sat- 
urday." ^ 

"  Dead  folks  can  be  seen  at  any  hour," — con- 
fidently put  in  Iliusha,  who,  so  far  as  I  was  able 
to  observe,  was  better  acquainted  than  the  rest 
with  all  the  rural  superstitions "  But  on 

*  Literally,    rend-rock — tlie    rock-spliltiiig   })lant. — Tkanslator. 

-  Certain  Saturda}S  in  tlie  year,  on  which  requiem  services  are 
held  for  dead  relatives.  One  such  Saturday  occurs  in  Lent;  an- 
other in  the  autumn,  called  "  Dmitry's  Day,"  when  dead  ancestors 
in  fieneral,  and  in  particular  those  who  fell  on  that  day  in  the 
l)attle  of  Kulikovo,  1380,  under  Prince  Dmitry  '  Donskoy '  (of  the 
Don),  which  broke  the  Tatar  yoke,  are  connnemorated.  Rut  the 
one  particularly  referred  to  iiere  is  that  which  precedes  Pentecost 
(Trinity   Sunday  and  the  Day   of  the  Spirit,  Monday). — Traxs- 

I,ATOtt. 

173 


me:moirs  of  a  spokts.aiax 

Kelatives'  Saturdav  vou  can  also  set-  the  liviiiiJ- 
person  whose  turn  it  is  to  die  that  year.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  sit  on  the  church  2)orch,  and  keep 
staring  at  the  road;  and  those  who  are  destined 
to  die  that  year  will  pass  by.  Peasant-wife 
Uliyana,  of  oui*  ^■illage,  went  and  sat  on  the 
chiu'cli  porch  last  year." 

"Well,  and  did  she  see  any  one?" — inquired 
Kostya,  with  interest. 

"  Of  coiu'se  she  did.  At  first,  she  sat  there  a 
long,  long  time,  without  seeing  or  hearing  any- 
body ....  but  a  dog  seemed  to  keep  barking 

and  barking  somewhere  or  other All  at 

once,  she  looks,  and  a  little  boy,  Avith  nothing  on 
but  his  shirt,  comes  walking  along  the  path.  She 
looked  closeh' — 't  was  Ivashka  FeodosyefF  .  .  ." 

"  The  one  who  died  last  spring? " — inter- 
rupted Fedya. 

"  The  very  same.  He  was  walking  along, 
without  raising  his  little  head.  .  .  .  And  Uli- 
yana recognised  him.  .  .  But  tlieii  she  looked 
again,  and  a  woman  was  coming  along.  She 
stared  and  stared, — akh,  O  Lord ! — 't  was  she  her- 
self, Uliyana  herself,  who  was  coming  along  the 
road." 

"  Was  it  reallv  she  herself?  " — asked  Fedya. 

"  God  is  my  witness,  it  was." 

"Well,  what  of  it? — she  isn't  dead  vet,  you 
know." 

"  But  tlie  year  is  n't  over  yet.  .Tust  take  a 
look  at  lier:  slie  's  on  the  point  of  death." 

174 


BYEZIIIN  MP:A1)C)\V 

All  relapsed  into  silence  again.  Pavel  flung  a 
handful  of  dry  twigs  on  the  fire.  They  turned 
sharply  hlaek  with  the  suddenly  upflaring  flame, 
crackled,  began  to  smoke,  and  set  to  writhing, 
thrusting  upward  their  singed  tips.  The  reflec- 
tion of  the  Are  darted  out  in  all  directions,  with 
abrupt  flickering^,  especially  upward.  All  at 
once,  from  somewhere  or  other,  a  white  pigeon 
flew  straight  into  this  reflection,  circled  with  af- 
fright in  one  spot,  all  flooded  with  the  hot  glare, 
and  disappeared,  with  flapping  wings. 

"  It  must  have  escaped  from  home," — re- 
marked Pavel. — "  Now  it  will  fly  until  it  hits 
against  something,  and  it  will  spend  the  ni^ht, 
until  daybreak,  on  whatever  it  hits  against." 

"  See  here,  Pavliisha," — said  Kostya: — "  is  n't 
it  true,  that  it  was  a  spirit  flying  to  heaven,  hey?  " 

Pavel  tossed  another  handful  of  twigs  on  the 
fire. 

"  Perhaps  so," — he  said  at  last. 

"  But  tell  me,  please,  Pavlusha,"- — began 
Fedya: — "was  the  heavenly  vision^  visible  also 
with  you  in  Shalamovo?  " 

"  When  the  sun  was  invisible?   Certainly." 

"  You  must  have  been  frightened  too,  I 
think?" 

"  Well,  we  were  n't  the  only  ones.  Our  mas- 
ter, although  he  had  explained  to  us  beforehand 
that  we  should  see  a  vision,  was  so  scared  himself, 
they  say,  when  it  began  to  grow  dark,  that  he 

'  That  is  what  our  peasants  call  an  eclipse  of  the  sun. 

17a 


ME.AIOIRS    OF   A    SPOKTSMAX 

was  beside  himself  with  fear.  xViid  in  the  house- 
serfs'  cottage,  the  peasant-wife  cook,  just  as 
soon  as  it  began  to  grow  dark,  1  hear,  took  and 
smashed  all  the  pots  in  the  oven  with  the  oven- 
fork.  '  Wlio  wants  to  eat  now  ? '  says  she : '  the  day 
of  judgment  has  come.'  ^Vnd  such  I'umours  were 
circulating  in  our  \ilhige,  brother,^ — to  the  effect 
that  white  wolves  would  overrun  the  earth,  and 
eat  up  the  people,  a  bird  of  prey  would  swoop 
down,  and  then  Trishka  himself  would  be  seen."  ^ 

"What  is  that  Trishka?" — asked  Kostya. 

"Dost  not  thou  know?" — put  in  Iliusha 
hotly: — "  well,  brother,  whence  comest  thou  that 
tliou  (lost  not  knoAv  about  Trishka?  You  're 
great  stay-at-homes  in  your  village,  that's  what 
you  are!  Trishka  ^\ill  be  a  wonderful  man  who 
will  come,  and  he  will  be  such  a  wonderfid  man 
that  it  will  be  impossible  to  catch  him,  and  no  one 
will  be  able  to  do  any  thin  f?  to  him:  so  wonderful 
will  the  man  be.  The  peasants  will  want  to  seize 
him,  for  example:  they  will  go  out  against  him 
with  cudgels,  they  will  surround  him,  but  he  will 
avert  their  eyes, — he  will  avert  their  eyes  in  such 
a  way,  that  they  will  slay  each  other.  They  will 
put  him  in  prison,  for  example, — he  will  ask  for 
a  drink  of  water  in  a  dipper:  they  will  fetch  him 
the  dipper,  and  he  will  dive  down  into  it,  and 
that 's  the  last  they  will  ever  see  of  him.     They 

'^he  belief  in  "  Tri'slika  "  is,  probal)ly,  a  reflection  of  tlie  legend 

al)i)iit    Anticlirist. 

176 


BYEZITIN  MEADOW 

M'ill  put  chains  on  him,  but  he  will  shake  his  hands 
and  they  will  fall  off'  him.  Well,  and  that 
Trishka  will  go  through  the  villages  and  the 
towns ;  and  that  Trishka,  the  cunning  fellow,  will 
lead  astray  the  Christian  race  .  .*  .  .  well,  and 

they  will  not  be  able  to  do  anything  to  him 

He  will  be  such  a  wonderful,  such  a  crafty  man." 
"  Well,  yes," — went  on  Pavlusha,  in  his  drawl- 
ing voice: — "  that 's  the  man.  They  've  been  ex- 
pecting him  in  oin*  village  too.  The  old  folks 
said,  that  as  soon  as  the  heavenly  vision  began, 
Trishka  would  come.  So  the  vision  began.  All 
the  people  scattered  out  into  the  street,  into  the 
fields,  to  wait  and  see  what  would  happen.  And 
we  have  a  conspicuous,  extensive  site,  you  know. 
They  are  gazing  when,  suddenly,  down-hill  from 
the  town,  comes  some  man  or  other,  such  a  pecu- 
liar man,  with  such  a  wonderful  head  .  .  .  they 
all  shout  out  at  once:  '  ()i,  Trishka  's  coming!  61, 
Trishka 's  coming!'  but  'twas  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Our  elder  crawled  into  the  ditch;  his  wife 
got  stuck  fast  in  the  board  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gate,  and  yelled  at  the  top  of  her  voice;  she 
scared  her  watch-dog  so  that  it  broke  loose  from 
its  chain,  and  leaped  over  the  wattled  hedge,  and 
fled  off  to  the  forest;  and  Kuzka's  father,  Doro- 
fyeitch,  sprang  into  the  oats,  and  squatted  down, 
and  set  to  piping  like  a  quail:  he  thought,  per- 
haps, the  enemy,  the  soul-spoiler,  would  have 
mercy  on  a  mere  })ird.     So  they  all  set  up  a  rum- 

177 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

pus!  .  ,  .  .  But  the  man  who  was  coming  was 
our  cooper,  Vavila;  he  had  hought  liimself  a  new 
tub  with  handles,  and  had  put  the  empty  tub  on 
his  liead." 

All  the  boys  burst  out  laughing,  and  again  be- 
came silent  for  a  moment,  as  it  often  happens 
with  people  who  are  conversing  in  the  open  air. 
I  cast  a  glance  around:  the  night  reigned,  sov- 
ereign, triumpliant ;  the  damp  chill  of  late  evening 
had  given  way  to  the  dry  warmth  of  midnight, 
and  it  still  had  long  to  lie  like  a  soft  cover- 
let over  the  slumbering  fields;  a  long  time  still 
remained  before  the  first  lisp,  the  first  fine  dews 
of  dawn.  There  was  no  moon  in  the  sky :  at  that 
time  it  rose  late.  Innumerable  golden  stars 
seemed  all  to  have  glided  softly,  twinkling  in 
emulation  of  one  another,  in  the  direction  of  the 
^Nlilky  AVay,  and,  in  truth,  as  you  gazed  at  them, 
you  yourself  began  to  feel  the  headlong,  uninter- 
rupted onward  flight  of  the  earth.  .  .  A  strange, 
sharp,  wailing  cry  suddenly  rang  out  twice  in 
succession  over  the  river,  and,  after  the  lapse  of 
a  few  seconds,  was  repeated  farther  away.  .  .  . 

Kostya  shuddered: "What's  that?" 

"That 's  a  heron  screaming," — returned  Pa- 
vel, composedly. 

"  A  heron," — repeated  Kostya.  ..."  But 
wliat  was  it,  Pavluslia,  that  I  heard  last  night," 
— he  added,  after  a  short  silence: — "  perhaps 
thou  knowest " 

178 


BYEZIIIN  MEADOW 

"\Vhat  didst  thou  hear?" 

"  ^^^ly,  this  is  what  1  heard.  I  was  going  from 
Kainennaya-Crryada  [Stone-Kidge]  to  Shash- 
kiiio.  First  I  kept  altogether  in  our  hazel-eopse, 
and  tlien  went  by  the  pool — thou  knowest,  at  the 
plaee  where  it  makes  a  sharp  turn  into  the  eliff, — 
there  's  a  deep  pit  there,  you  see,  made  by  the 
spring  freshets,  which  never  dries  up;  it's  still 
all  overgrown  with  reeds,  you  know ;  so,  as  I  was 
walking  past  that  water-hole,  boys,  somebody 
began  to  groan  from  that  same  hole,  and  so 
pitifully,  so  pitifully  .  .  '  Oo-oo  .  .  .  oo-oo 
.  .  .  oo-oo ! '  I  was  seized  with  such  terror,  my 
brothers:  the  hour  was  late,  and  the  voice 
was  so  painful. — What  could  it  have  been? 
hey?" 

"  Thieves  drowned  Akim  the  forester  in  that 
pool  the  year  before  last," — remarked  Pavliisha; 
— "  so,  perhaps,  it  was  his  soul  wailing." 

"  Why,  that  must  have  been  it,  my  brothers," 
— returned  Kostya,  opening  wide  his  eyes,  which 
w^re  huge  already.  ..."  I  did  n't  know  that 
they  had  drowned  Akim  in  that  pool:  I  would 
have  been  scared  much  worse." 

"  But  they  say  there  are  small  frogs," — went 
on  Pavlusha, — "  which  cry  out  in  that  pitiful 
way." 

"  Frogs?  well,  no,  it  wasn't  frogs  .  .  .  which 

made  that "     (The  heron  screamed  again 

above    the    river). — "Deuce    take    it!" — ejacu- 

179 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

lated  Kostya,  involuntarily: — "  it  shrieks  like  the 
forest-demon."' 

"The  forest-demon  doesn't  shriek, — he's 
dumb,"- — put  in  Iliusha: — "he  only  elaps  his 
hands  and  cracks  .   .  .  ." 

"  And  hast  thou  seen  him, — the  forest-demon? 
I  'd  like  to  know," — Fedya  interrupted  him, 
sneeringly. 

"  Xo,  I  have  n't,  and  Cxod  forbid  that  1 
should  see  him;  but  other  folks  have  seen 
him.  The  other  day  now,  he  tricked  a  peas- 
ant; he  led  him  on  and  on  through  the  forest, 
and  all  the  while  round  one  and  the  self -same 
meadow He  barely  got  home  by  day- 
light." 

"  Well,  and  did  he  ser.  him?  " 

"  Yes.  He  says  he  stands  so  big,  so  big,  and 
dark,  and  muffled  up,  behind  a  tree,  as  it  were, 
so  that  you  can't  get  a  good  look  at  him,  as  though 
he  were  hiding  from  the  moon,  and  he  stares  and 
stares  with  his  little  eyes,  and  blinks  them,  and 
blinks  .  .  .  ." 

"  Do  stop  that !  " — exclaimed  Fedya,  w'ith  a 
slight  shudder,  and  a  twitch  of  his  shoulders: — 
"Pfu!  .  .  .  ." 

"  And  why  is  this  nasty  crew  distributed  over 
the  w^orld?" — remarked  Pavel: — "really  now, 
why? " 

Again  a  pause  ensued. 

"  Look,     look,     boys," — suddenly     rang    out 

180 


BYEZIllN  JNIKADOW^ 

Vunya's  childish  voice: — "  T^nok  at  God's  little 
stars,  like  bees  swarming!  " 

He  poked  liis  fresli  little  face  out  from  under 
the  mat,  propped  himself  on  his  little  fist,  and 
slowly  raised  on  high  his  large,  tranquil  eyes. 
The  eves  of  all  tlie  little  lads  were  raised  to  the 
sky,  and  were  not  soon  lowered. 

"  Well,  Vanya," — began  Fedya,  aifection- 
ately: — "how  about  thy  sister  Aniutka, — is  she 
well?" 

"  Yes," — replied  Vanya,  with  a  slight  lisp. 

"  Tell  her,  we  want  to  know  why  she  does  n't 
come  to  see  us." 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Tell  her  that  she  must  come." 

"  I  '11  tell  her." 

"  Tell  her  that  1  '11  give  her  a  present." 

"  And  wilt  thou  give  me  one  too?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  give  thee  one  too." 

Vanya  sighed. 

"  Well,  no,  I  don't  want  it.  Better  give  it  to 
her:  she  's  such  a  good  girl." 

And  again  Vanya  laid  his  head  on  the  ground. 
Pavel  rose,  and  took  the  empt}'-  kettle  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  art  thou  going?  " — Fedya  asked  him. 

"  To  the  river  to  dip  up  some  water.  I  want 
a  drink  of  water." 

The  dogs  rose  and  followed  him. 

"  Look  out,  don't  tumble  into  the  river!  " — 
shouted  Iliusha  after  him. 

181 


ME.AIOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAX 

"Why  should  he  tumble  in?" — said  Fedya: 
— "  He  '11  take  care  of  himself." 

""  Vcs,  so  he  will.  All  sorts  of  things  happen: 
he  '11  stoop  down  and  heuin  to  dip  up  the  water, 
and  the  water-sprite  will  grab  him  by  the  hand 
and  pull  him  in  to  himself.  Then  people  will 
begin  to  say:  '  The  little  fellow  tumbled  into  the 

water.  .  .  .'     ^lueh  he  did! Yo-onder, 

he  has  made  his  way  in  among  the  rushes,"  he 
added,   listening. 

The  rushes,  in  fact,  were  moving, — "  whisper- 
ing," as  they  express  it  among  us. 

"And  is  it  true," — asked  Kostya: — "that 
Akulina  the  fool  has  been  crazy  ever  since  the 
time  she  was  in  the  water?  " 

"  Yes,  ever  since  then.  .  .  Just  look  at  her 
now!  But  they  say  that  before  that,  she  used  to 
be  a  beauty.  The  water-sprite  spoiled  her.  He 
did  n"t  expect,  you  see,  that  they  would  pidl  her 
out  so  soon.  So  he  spoiled  her,  down  on  the  bot- 
tom, at  his  own  place." 

(I  had  met  that  Akulina  more  than  once  my- 
self. Covered  with  rags,  frightfully  thin,  with 
a  face  as  black  as  a  coal,  a  confused  look,  and 
teeth  eternally  exposed  in  a  grin,  she  would  stamp 
up  and  down  for  hours  in  one  and  the  self-same 
spot,  somewhere  on  the  highway,  with  her  bony 
ai'ms  pressed  tightly  to  her  breast,  and  slowly 
shifting  from  one  i'oot  to  the  other,  like  a  wild 
beast  in  a  cage.     She  understood  nothing  that 

182 


BYKZiriX   MKADOW 

was  said  to  her,  and  oidy  laughed  convulsively 
from  time  to  time.) 

"  But  they  say/'— went  on  Kostya, — "  that 
Akulina  threw  herself  into  the  river,  because  her 
lover  deceived  her." 

"  That 's  exactly  why  she  did  it." 

"And  dost  tlioii  remember  Vasya?  " — added 
Kostya,  sadly. 

"  What  Viisya?  " — incjuired  Fedya. 

"  Why,  the  one  who  ^vas  drowned," — replied 
Kostya.  "  ^Vliat  a  boy  he  was!  i-ikh,  what  a  boy 
he  was!  His  mother,  Feklista,  ho^\'  she  did  love 
him,  that  Vasya!  And  she  seemed  to  have  a  pre- 
sentiment, did  Feklista,  that  water  would  be  his 
ruin.  When  Vasya  used  to  go  to  the  river  with 
us  boys,  to  bathe,  in  summer,  she  would  just 
quiver  all  over.  The  other  women  did  n't  mind : 
they  would  go  past  with  their  wash-troughs  them- 
selves, waddling  along,  but  Feklista  would  set 
her  trough  ^  on  the  ground  and  begin  to  call  to 
him.  '  Come  back,'  says  she,  '  come  back,  light 
of  my  eyes!  okh,  come  back,  my  dear  little  fal- 
con ! ' — And  how  he  came  to  get  drowned,  the 
Lord  knows.  He  was  playing  on  the  shore,  and 
his  mother  was  there  also,  raking  up  the  hay; 
all  at  once,  she  heard  some  one  making  bubbles 
in  the  water, — and  behold,  nothing  but  Vasya's 
little  cap  was  floating  on  the  water.     Alas,  ever 

^  The  Russian  ])easant  wash-tub  is  like  a  loniz',  shallow  troug^h, 
or  chopping-tray,  made  of  a  halved  and  hollowed  log. — Trans- 
lator. 

183 


me:moiks  of  a  sports.aian 

since  then,  Feklistti  has  not  been  in  lier  riglit 
mind : — she  '11  come  and  lie  down  on  that  spot 
where  he  was  drowned ;  she  "11  lie  there,  brothers, 
and  strike  np  a  song, — you  remember,  Vasya 
always  sang  the  same  song, — so  she  will  strike  up 
that  song,  and  weep,  and  weep,  and  complain 

bitterly  to  God " 

Yonder  comes  Pavliisha," — said  Fedya. 

Pavlusha  came  up  to  the  fire  with  a  full  kettle 
in  his  hand. 

"  Well,  boys," — he  began,  after  a  brief  pause: 
— "  something  is  wrong." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter?  " — asked  Kostya, 
hastily. 

"  1  have  heard  Vasya's  voice." 

All  fairly  shuddered. 

"  What  dost  thou  mean,  what  dost  thou 
mean?  " — stammered  Kostya. 

"  God  is  my  witness.  No  sooner  had  1  begun 
to  stoop  down  to  the  water,  than  suddenly  I 
heard  myself  called  by  \'asya's  little  voice,  and 
from  under  the  water,  as  it  were :  '  Pavlusha, 
hey  there,  Pavlusha,  come  hither.'  1  went  away. 
But  I  dipped  up  the  water  all  the  same." 

"  Akh,  O  my  Lord!  akh,  O  Lord!  " — cried  the 
little  lads,  crossing  themselves. 

"  That  was  the  water-sprite  calling  thee,  for 
sure,  Pavel," — added  Fedya.  .  .  "  And  we  have 
just  been  talking  about  him, — about  Vasya." 

"  Akh,  't  is  a  bad  omen," — faltered  Iliiisha. 

184 


BYEZIIIX   ^MEADOW 

"Come,  'tis  nothing,  drop  it!" — said  Pavel, 
decisively,  and  sat  down  again: — "you  can't 
escape  your  fate." 

The  boys  subsided  into  silence.  It  was  evident 
that  Pavel's  words  had  produced  a  profound  im- 
pression upon  them.  They  began  to  stretch 
themseh  es  out  in  front  of  the  fire,  as  though  pre- 
paring to  go  to  sleep. 

"What's  that?" — asked  Kostya,  suddenly, 
raising  his  head. 

Pavel  listened  intently. 

"  'T  is  the  woodcock  flying, — they  are  whis- 
tling." 

"  But  whither  are  they  flying?  " 

"  Away  yonder,  where,  they  say,  there  is  no 
winter." 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  there  is  such  a  coun- 

try?" 

"  There  is." 

"  Is  it  far  away? " 

"  Yes,  far,  far  away,  beyond  the  warm  seas." 

Kostya  sighed,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

More  than  three  hours  had  already  elapsed 
since  I  had  joined  the  boys.  The  moon  rose  at 
last:  I  did  not  immediately  observe  it,  it  was  so 
small  and  slender.  This  moonless  night,  appar- 
ently, was  as  magnificent  as  before But 

many  stars  which  had  but  lately  stood  high  in  the 
heavens,  were  already  sinking  toward  tlie  dark 
rim  of  the  earth ;  everything  round  about  had  be- 

185 


.MKMOIRS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

come  perfectly  quiet,  as  things  generally  do  only 
toward  dawn:  everything  was  sleeping,  with  the 
deep,  motionless  slumher  which  precedes  the  hreak 
of  day.  The  air  was  no  longer  so  strongly  per- 
fumed,— it  seemed  to  have  again  hecome  impreg- 
nated with  moisture.  .  .  .  Summer  niglits  are 
not  long!  .  .  .  The  prattle  of  the  little  lads  had 
died  down  with  the  bonfires.  .  .  .  The  dogs, 
too,  were  sleeping;  the  horses,  so  far  as  I  was 
able  to  make  out  by  the  barely-shining,  faintly- 
spreading  light  of  the  stars,  were  also  lying 
down,  ^vith  drooping  heads.  ...  A  light  for- 
getfulness  descended  upon  me;  it  passed  into 
slumber. 

A  fresh  ciu'rent  of  air  blew  across  my  face.  I 
opened  my  eyes: — morning  was  breaking.  The 
dawn  was  not,  as  yet,  glowing  red  anywhere,  but 
the  east  was  already  beginning  to  grow  white. 
Everything  had  become  visible,  tliough  dimly 
visible,  all  around.  The  pale-grey  sky  w^as  light- 
ing up,  turning  cold  and  blue;  the  stars  now 
twinkled  with  a  faint  light,  now  disappeared;  the 
earth  had  grown  damp,  the  foliage  had  begun  to 
sweat;  here  and  there  living  sounds,  voices,  were 
beginning  to  resound,  and  a  thin,  early  breeze 
had  begun  to  stray  abroad  and  flutter  ovei'  the 
earth.  My  body  responded  to  it  with  a  slight, 
cheerful  shiver.  I  rose  brisklv  to  my  feet,  and 
walked  toward  the  little  boys.  They  were  all 
sleeping  like  dead  men  around  the  smouldering 

18G 


m'EZHlN  JNIEADOW 

bonfire;  Pavel  alone  hall-rose,  and  gazed  intently 
at  me. 

1  nodded  my  liead  to  liim  and  went  my  way, 
along  the  mist-wreathed  river.  Before  I  had  pro- 
ceeded two  versts,  tliere  had  streamed  forth  all 
around  me  over  the  wide,  wet  meadow,  ahead  of 
me,  over  the  hills  which  were  beginning  to  gleam 
green,  from  forest  to  forest,  and  behind  me,  over 
the  long,  dusty  highway,  over  the  glittering,  crim- 
son-tinted bushes,  and  the  river,  shyly  glinting 
blue  from  beneath  the  dispersing  fog — there  had 
streamed  forth  first  scarlet,  then  red,  then  golden 

torrents  of  young,  blazing  light Ever}'- 

thing  began  to  stir,  awoke,  began  to  sing,  to  make 
a  noise,  to  chatter.  Everywhere,  like  radiant  bril- 
liants, glowed  great  dewdrops;  the  sounds  of  a 
bell  were  wafted  toward  me,  pure  and  clear,  as 
though  they,  also,  had  been  washed  by  the  morn- 
ing freshness,  and,  suddenly,  the  rested  herd  of 
horses  dashed  headlong  past  me,  driven  by  the 
lads  I  have  mentioned.  .  .  . 

Unfortunately,  I  am  bound  to  add  that  Pavel 
died  that  same  year.  He  was  not  drowned;  he 
was  killed  by  falling  from  a  horse.  'T  is  a  pity, 
for  he  was  a  splendid  young  fellow ! 


187 


IX 


KASYAN   FROM   THE   FAIR-METCHA  * 

I  WAS  retiiriiing  home  from  the  chase  in  a  jolting 
peasant  cart,  and,  overwhehned  by  the  stifling 
heat  of  the  snltry,  overcast  summer's  day  (every 
one  knows  that,  on  such  days,  the  heat  is  some- 
times even  more  intolerable  than  on  clear  days,  es- 
pecially when  there  is  no  breeze) ,  was  dozing  and 
rolling  about,  with  surly  impatience  surrendering 
myself  wholly  to  be  devoured  by  the  fine,  white 
dust,  which  rose  incessantly  from  the  beaten  road 
from  beneath  tlie  disjointed  and  rickety  wheels, — 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  my  attention  was  aroused 
by  the  uneasiness  and  the  agitated  movements  of 
the  body  of  my  coachman,  who,  up  to  that  mo- 
ment, had  been  even  more  sound  asleep  than  my- 
self. He  was  jerking  at  the  reins,  fidgeting  about 
on  the  box,  and  began  to  shout  at  tlie  horses, 
every  now  and  then  casting  a  glance  to  one  side. 
I  looked  round.  We  were  driving  over  a  tilled 
plain;  low  hillocks,  also  tilled,  ran  athwart  it,  in 
remarkably  steep,  wave-like  slopes;  the  eye  could 
take  in,  at  most,  only  about  five  versts  of  waste 

'The  Metdisi  is  a  river  of  Central  R^issia  to  which  the  epithet 
"Fair"  is  applied  as  "Dear  little  mother"  (Mdiushka)  is  to  the 
\'olga. — Translator. 

188 


KASYAN  FROM   THE  1  Alli-JNIETCIIA 

expanse;  far  away  in  the  distance,  small  biich 
C()[)ses  alone  broke  the  almost  straight  line  of  the 
hori/on  with  their  rounded,  yet  jagged  crests. 
Narnnv  paths  stretched  out  through  the  fields, 
lost  themselves  in  ravines,  wound  around  swells 
of  the  land,  and  on  one  of  them,  which  intersected 
oiu'  road  about  five  hundred  paces  ahead  of  us,  I 
descried  some  sort  of  procession.  This  was  what 
my  coachman  was  looking  at. 

It  was  a  funeral.  In  front,  in  a  peasant  cart, 
drawn  by  one  horse,  rode  the  priest  at  a  foot-pace ; 
the  chanter  sat  beside  him  and  drove;  behind  the 
cart,  four  peasant  men,  with  bared  heads,  bore  the 
coffin,  covered  with  white  linen ;  two  peasant  wo- 
men walked  behind  the  coffin.  The  shrill,  lugu- 
brious voice  of  one  of  them  reached  my  ears;  I 
listened:  she  was  wailing.  Mournfully  did  that 
varying  yet  monotonous,  hopelessly-sorrowful 
chant  resound  amid  the  empty  fields.  The  coach- 
man whipped  up  his  horses:  he  wanted  to  get 
ahead  of  this  procession.  'T  is  a  bad  omen  to 
meet  a  funeral  on  the  road.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  did  succeed  in  galloping  past  along  the  road 
before  the  corpse  managed  to  reach  it;  but  we 
had  not  proceeded  a  hundred  paces,  when,  all  at 
once,  our  cart  gave  a  violent  lurch,  careened  on 
one  side,  and  almost  toppled  over.  The  coach- 
man pulled  up  his  horses,  which  had  started  to 
run  away,  waved  his  hand  in  despair,  and  spat. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "—I  asked. 

189 


me:moirs  of  a  sportsman 

My  coachman  ali<>lite(l  in  silence,  and  without 
haste. 

"  Hut  what 's  tlie  matter?  " 

"  The    axletree    is    l)i-()ken hurne(t 

through," — he  rephed  gloomily,  and  suddenly 
adjusted  the  hreeching  on  the  trace-horse  with 
such  iiuhgnation  that  the  horse  came  near  going 
over  on  its  side,  hut  retained  its  footing,  snorted, 
shook  itself,  and  hegan  very  calmly  to  scratch 
itself  with  its  teeth  helow  tlie  knee  of  the  right 
leg. 

I  aliglited,  and  stood  for  some  time  in  the  road, 
confusedly  ahsorhed  hy  a  feeling  of  disagreeable 
surprise.  The  right  wheel  was  turned  almost 
completely  under  the  cart,  and  seemed  to  have 
elevated  its  liub  on  high,  in  dumb  despair. 

"  ^Vhat  is  to  be  done  now?  " — I  asked,  at  last. 

"  Yonder 's  the  one  who  is  to  blame!" — said 
my  coachman,  pointing  with  his  whip  at  the  pro- 
cession, which  had  already  had  time  to  turn  into 
the  highway,  and  was  ajjproaching  us: — "  I  've 
always  noticed  it," — he  continued: — "  'T  is  a  sure 
sign — to  meet  a  corpse Yes." 

And  again  he  ^vorried  the  trace-horse  who,  per- 
ceiving his  displeasure  and  harshness,  decided  to 
remain  impassive,  and  only  swished  its  tail  mod- 
estly from  time  to  time.  1  walked  back  and  forth 
for  a  while,  and  again  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of 
the  wheel. 

In  the  meantime,  the  corpse  had  overtaken  us. 

190 


KASYAX  FllOM   THE   FAIU-METC  HA 

'riiruino-  out  peaceably  from  the  road  upon  the 
grass,  the  mournful  procession  passed  our  cart. 
The  coacliman  and  I  removed  our  caps,  ex- 
changed bows  witli  the  priest,  and  ghmces  with 
the  bearers.  Tliev  walked  with  difficulty;  their 
broad  chests  heaved  high.  Of  the  two  women 
who  walked  behind  the  coffin,  one  was  very  aged 
and  pale ;  her  impassive  f eatiu'es,  cruelly  distorted 
with  grief,  retained  an  expression  of  strict,  rig- 
orous dignity.  She  w^alked  on  in  silence,  from 
time  to  time  raising  her  gaunt  hand  to  her  thin, 
sunken  lips.  The  eyes  of  the  other  woman,  a 
yoimg  one  about  five-and-twenty  years  of  age, 
were  red  and  moist,  and  her  whole  face  was  swol- 
len with  weeping;  as  they  came  alongside  of  us, 
she  ceased  to  wail,  alid  covered  her  face  with  her 

sleeve But  now  tlie  corpse  had  passed 

us,  had  turned  out  again  into  the  highway,  and 
her  mournful,  soul-breaking  chant  rang  out  once 
more.  Having  silently  gazed  after  the  coffin,  as 
it  rocked  with  regular  motion,  my  coachman 
turned  to  me. 

"  'T  is  Martyn  the  carpenter  they  're  burying," 
— said  he: — "the  one  from  Ryabaya." 

"  How  dost  thou  know  that?  " 

"  I  found  it  out  by  the  women.     The  old  one 
is  his  mother,  and  the  young  one  is  his  wife." 

"Was  he  ill?" 

"  Yes  ....  he    had    the    fever The 

overseer  sent  for  the  doctor  day  before  yesterday, 

191 


me:\i()trs  of  a  sportsman 

but  they  did  n't  find  the  doctor  at  liome 

And  he  was  a  good  carpenter;  ratlier  given  to 
(h'inking,  })ut  a  fine  carpenter  he  was.     You  see 

how  that  woman  of  his  is  kilhng  herself 

AVell,  yes,  'tis  well  known:  women's  tears  are 
cheap.    \Vomen's  tears  are  just  tlie  same  as  water. 

•        •        •        •  A.    t^i3* 

And  he  bent  down,  crawled  under  the  rein  of 
the  trace-horse,  and  seized  the  arch  with  both 
hands.' 

"  But," — I  remarked: — "  what  are  w^e  to  do?  " 
JNIy  coachman  first  braced  his  knee  against  the 
shoulder  of  the  shaft-horse,  shook  the  arch  a 
couple  of  times,  adjusted  the  saddle,  then  crawled 
back  again  under  the  rein  of  the  trace-horse,  and, 
giving  it  a  shove  in  the  muzzle  in  passing,  he 
stepped  up  to  the  wheel — stepped  up  to  it,  and, 
without  removing  his  gaze  from  it,  pulled  from 
beneath  the  skirts  of  his  coat  a  birch-bark  snuff- 
box, slowly  tugged  at  the  strap  on  its  cover, 
slowly  thrust  his  two  thick  fingers  into  the  snuff- 
box (and  it  would  hardly  hold  two),  kneaded 
and  kneaded  the  snuff,  puckered  up  his  nose  in 
advance,  inhaled  tlie  snuff  with  pauses  between, 
accompanying  each  sniff  with  a  prolonged  grimt, 
and,  screwing  up  his  lids  in  a  painful  way,  and 
blinking  his  tearful  eyes,  he  plunged  into  pro- 
found meditation. 

'  Tlie  arch  connect iiip  the  shafts,  over  the  neck  of  the  trotter. 
The  side  horses  (sonictnnes  only  one  is  used,  instead  of  two)  are 
very  slightly  attached  liy  traces. — Traxsi.ator. 

192 


KASYAN  FROM  THE  FAIR-IMKTCHA 

"  Well,  what  now?  " — I  said  at  last. 

My  coachman  carefully-  replaced  the  snuff-box 
in  his  pocket,  pulled  his  cap  down  on  his  eye- 
brows, without  using  his  hands,  with  a  movement 
of  his  head  alone,  and  thoughtfully  climbed  upon 
his  box. 

"  Whither  art  thou  going?  " — I  asked  him,  not 
without  surprise. 

"  Please  take  your  seat," — he  replied  calmly, 
and  gathered  up  the  reins. 

"  But  how  are  we  going  to  drive?  " 

"  We  '11  drive  on  all  right,  sir." 

"  But  the  axle.  ..." 

"  Please  take  your  seat." 

"  But  the  axle  is  broken " 

" 'T  is  broken,  yes,  'tis  broken;  but  we  shall 
manage  to  get  to  the  settlement  ....  at  a 
walk, — that  is  to  say,  yonder,  behind  the  grove, 
there  are  dwellings:  'tis  called  Yiidino." 

"  And  dost  thou  think  that  we  can  get  there?  " 

My  coachman  did  not  vouchsafe  me  an  an- 
swer. 

"  I  would  rather  go  afoot," — said  I. 

"As  you  please,  sir " 

And  he  flourished  his  whip.  The  horses 
started. 

We  really  did  reach  the  settlement,  although 
the  right  front  wheel  hardly  held,  and  revolved 
in  a  remarkably  strange  manner.  On  one  hillock, 
it  came  near  flying  off;  but  my  coachman  shouted 

193 


MEMOIRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

in  a  vicious  voice,  and  we  made  the  descent  in 
safety.  ' 

The  Yiidino  hamlet  consisted  of  six  tinv,  low- 
roofed  cottages,  which  had  already  managed  to 
sag  down  to  one  side,  although,  in  all  prohability, 
they  had  been  erected  not  long  before;  not  all 
their  yards  were  enclosed  with  wattled  hedges. 
As  we  drove  into  this  settlement,  we  encountered 
not  a  single  living  soul;  there  were  no  hens,  nor 
dogs  even,  visible  in  the  street;  only  one  black 
dog,  with  a  bob-tail,  sprang  out  at  our  appear- 
ance, from  a  completely  dried  trough,  where  it 
must  have  been  driven  by  thirst,  and  immedi- 
ately, without  barking,  darted  headlong  under  a 
gate.  1  entered  the  first  cottage,  opened  the  door 
into  the  anteroom,  called  for  the  owners, — no  one 
answered  me.  I  shouted  a  second  time:  the  hun- 
gry mewing  of  a  cat  resounded  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door.  I  pushed  it  open  with  my  foot;  an 
emaciated  cat  slipped  quickly  past  me,  her  green 
eyes  flashing  in  the  dark.  I  put  my  head  into 
the  room,  and  looked:  it  was  dark,  smoky,  and 
empty.  I  betook  myself  to  the  back  yard,  and 
there  was  no  one  there,  either.  ...  A  calf  was 
bleating  in  the  paddock;  a  lame,  grey  goose  was 
hobbling  about  a  little  to  one  side.  I  went  on  to 
the  second  cottage, — and  there  was  not  a  soul  in 

the  second  cottage.    I  went  to  the  yard . 

In  the  very  middle  of  the  brightly  illuminated 
yard,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  heat,  as  the  expres- 

194 


KASYAN  FROISI    I  TTK   FAIR-METCHA 

sion  is,  there  was  lying,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a  small 
boy,  face  to  the  groiuul,  his  head  covered  with 
[lis  long  peasant  coat.  A  few  paces  from  him, 
beside  a  wretched  little  cart,  stood  an  emaciated 
horse  in  a  tattered  harness  under  a  thatched  shed. 
The  sunlight,  falling  in  streams  through  the  nar- 
row interstices  of  the  rickety  penthouse  roof, 
streaked  its  shaggy,  reddish-brown  hide  with 
small,  bright  blotches.  There,  also,  in  a  lofty 
bird-house,  the  starlings  were  chattering,  staring 
down  with  calm  curiosity  from  their  aerial  little 
dwelling.  I  went  up  to  the  sleeper,  and  began 
to  rouse  him 

He  raised  his  head,  saw  me,  and  immediately 
sprang  to  his  feet.  ..."  What  is  it,  what 's 
wanted?  What 's  the  matter?  "  he  muttered,  half^ 
awake. 

I  did  not  answer  him  on  the  instant:  so  aston- 
ished was  I  by  his  personal  appearance.  Picture 
to  yourself  a  dwarf  fifty  years  of  age,  with  a  tiny, 
swarthy,  wrinkled  face,  a  sharp-pointed  little 
nose,  small,  brown,  hardly  visible  eyes,  and  thick, 
curly  black  hair,  which  sat  on  his  tiny  head  like 
the  broad  cap  on  a  mushroom. 

His  whole  body  was  extremely  puny  and 
thin,  and  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to  convey 
in  words  how  strange  and  remarkable  was  his 
glance. 

"  What 's  wanted?  " — he  asked  me  again. 

I  explained  to  him  the  state  of  the  case;  he  lis- 

195 


ME^rOTRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

tened  to  me,  never  taking  his  slowly  blinking  eyes 
oft*  me. 

"  Cannot  we  obtain  a  new  axle?  " — 1  said  at 
last:—"  I  sliould  be  glad  to  pay  for  it." 

"  But -mIio  are  you (  sportsmen?  " — he  incjuired, 
surveying  me  from  head  to  foot  witli  a  glance. 
les. 

"  You  shoot  the  l)irds  of  heaven,  I  suppose?  .  . 
and  wild  beasts?  ....  And  don't  vou  think  it 
is  a  sin  to  slay  (rod's  birds,  to  shed  innocent 
blood?" 

The  queer  little  old  man  spoke  with  great  de- 
liberation. The  sound  of  his  voice  also  surprised 
me.  Xot  only  was  there  nothing  infirm  audible 
in  it, — it  was  wonderfully  sweet,  youtlifid,  and 
almost  eft'eminately  tender. 

"  I  have  no  axle," — he  added,  after  a  brief 
pause: — "that  one  yonder  is  of  no  use" — (he 
pointed  at  his  little  cart) — "you  have  a  large 
cart,  I  suppose?  " 

"  And  cannot  one  be  found  in  the  village?  " 

"  AVhat  sort  of  a  village  do  you  call  this!  .  .  . 
No  one  here  has  one.  .  .  And  there  's  no  one  at 
home,  either :  they  are  all  at  work.  Go  your  way," 
— he  said  suddenly,  and  lay  down  again  on  the 
ground. 

I  had  not  in  the  least  expected  this  termination. 

"  Tiisten,  old  man," — I  began,  touching  his 
shoulder:—"  please,  to  hel])  me." 

"Go  vour  way,  and  God  be  with  vou!  I'm 

196 


KASYAN   FROM   TIIK   1  AIR-METCHA 

tired :  1  '\'e  been  to  the  town," — he  said  to  nie,  and 
dragged  liis  coat  over  his  head. 

"  But  please  do  me  the  favour,"— I  went  on: — • 
"  I  ...  I  will  pay." 

"  I  don't  want  thy  pay." 

"  But  ])lease,  old  man  .  .  .  ." 

He  half  raised  himself,  and  sat  up,  with  liis 
thin  little  legs  crossed. 

"  I  might  guide  thee  to  the  place  where  they 
are  felling  timber.  Some  merchants  have  bought 
our  grove, — may  God  judge  them,  they  are  carry- 
ing off  our  grove,  and  have  ])uilt  an  office, — may 
God  be  their  judge!  Perhaps  thou  couldst  order 
an  axle  of  them  there,  or  buy  one  ready-made." 

"  Capital!  "- — I  exclaimed  joyously.  .  .  "  The 
very  thing!  .  .  .  let  us  go." 

"  An  oaken  axle,  a  good  one," — he  went  on, 
without  rising  from  his  place. 

"  And  is  it  far  to  the  timber-felling  place?  " 

"  Three  versts." 

"  Well,  never  mind !  We  can  drive  there  in  thy 

tit 
. 

"  But  you  can't  .  .  .  ." 

"  Come  along,  let 's  start," — said  I. — -''  Let 's 
start,  old  man!  My  coachman  is  waiting  for  us 
in  the  street." 

The  old  man  rose  reluctantly,  and  followed  me 
to  the  street.  My  coachman  was  in  an  exas- 
perated  state  of  mind :  he  had  undertaken  to  water 
his  horses,  but  there  turned  out  to  be  extremely 

197 


MEMOIRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

little  water  in  the  w  cU,  and  it  had  a  bad  flavour, 
which,  so  coachmen  say,  is  of  prime  importance. 
.  .  .  Xevertheless,  at  the  sight  of  the  old  man, 
he  grinned,  nodded  his  head,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Ah,  Kasyanushka!  morning!  " 

"  iSIorning,  Erofei,  upright  man!" — replied 
Kasyan,  in  a  dejected  voice. 

1  immediately  communicated  his  proposition 
to  the  coachman;  Erofei  expressed  his  assent,  and 
drove  into  the  yard.  AVhile  he,  with  deliberate 
bustle,  unharnessed  his  horses,  the  old  man  stood, 
with  his  shoulders  leaning  against  the  gate,  and 
stared  uncheerfully  now  at  him,  now  at  me.  He 
seemed,  somehow,  perplexed:  he  was  not  over- 
joyed at  our  appearance,  so  far  as  I  could  observe. 

"  And  dost  thou  mean  to  say  tliat  they  have 
sent  thee  too  off  here  to  settle?  " — asked  Erofei, 
suddenly,  as  he  removed  the  arch  from  the  shaft- 
horse. 

"  Me  too." 

"  Ekh!  "^ — said  my  coachman  through  his  teeth. 
— "  Knowest  thou  Martyn  the  carpenter  .  .  . 
for  thou  dost  know  ^lartyn  from  Ryabaya,  of 
course?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  he 's  dead.  We  have  just  met  his 
coffin." 

Kasyan  shuddered. 

"  He  's  dead?  " — he  said,  and  dropped  his  eyes. 
"  Yes,  he  is  dead.     Why  didst  not  thou  cure 

198 


KASVAN  FROM  THE   FAIK-MKTCHA 

him,  liey  ?  For  they  say  that  thou  dost  cure,  that 
thou  art  a  healer." 

My  coachman  was,  evidently,  amusing  himself, 
ridiculing-  the  old  man. 

"  And  is  this  thy  cart?  " — he  added,  indicating- 
it  with  his  shoulder. 
Yes. 

"Well,  what  a  cart!  ....  d' ye  call  that  a 
cart?  "—he  repeated,  and  taking  it  by  the  shafts, 

he  almost  turned  it  upside  down "A  cart! 

.  .  .  And  what  are  }^ou  going  to  drive  to  the 
clearing  in?  ...  .  You  can't  harness  our  horse 
in  these  shafts:  our  horses  are  large, — and  what 
do  you  call  that?  " 

"  I  don't  know," — replied  Kasyan, — "  what 
you  will  ride  in :  perhaps  on  that  little  beast  yon- 
der,"— he  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"  On  that  one,  dost  thou  mean?  " — put  in  Ero- 
fei,  and  stepping  up  to  Kasyan's  wretched  nag, 
he  poked  it  disdainfully  in  the  neck  with  the 
third  finger  of  his  right  hand. — "  Humph," — he 
added  reproachfully: — "it's  fast  asleep,  the 
idiot !  " 

I  requested  Erofei  to  harness  it  to  the  cart  as 
speedily  as  possible.  I  wanted  to  drive  with  Kas- 
yan to  the  clearing:  partridges  are  frequently  to 
be  fovmd  at  such  spots.  When  the  cart  was  quite 
ready,  and  I  had  contrived,  somehow  or  other,  to 
ensconce  myself  and  my  dog  on  its  warped,  lin- 
den-bark bottom,  and  Kasyan,  curling  himself  up 

199 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

in  a  ball  and  with  his  previous  dejected  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  had  also  taken  his  seat,  on  the 
front  rim,— Erofei  approached  me,  and  with  a 
mysterions  aspect  whispered: 

"  And  well  have  yon  done,  dear  little  father, 
in  driving  with  him.  For  he  's  that  sort  of  a  man, 
he  's  a  holy  fool,'  and  his  nickname  is — The  Flea. 
I  don't  know  how  yon  managed  to  nnderstand 
him.  .  .  .  o"  I  wanted  to  remark  to  Erofei,  that, 
so  far,  Kasyan  had  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  very 
sensible  man;  but  my  coachman  inmiediately  pro- 
ceeded, in  the  same  tone: 

"  Just  you  keep  a  sharp  watch,  to  see  that  he 
takes  you  to  the  right  place.  And  please  to  pick 
out  the  axle  yourself:  please  to  get  as  healthy  an 
axle  as  possible * 

"How  now.  Flea," — he  added  aloud: — "can 
a  body  get  a  bit  of  bread  from  you?  " 

"  Seek:  perchance,  it  may  be  found,"— replied 
Kasyan,  jerking  the  reins,  and  we  drove  off. 

His  little  horse,  to  my  sincere  amazement,  went 
far  from  badly.  During  the  entire  course  of  our 
drive,  Kasyan  preserved  an  obstinate  silence,  and 
to  my  questions  replied  abruptly  and  reluctantly. 
We  soon  reached  the  felling-place,  and  there  be- 
took ourselves  to  the  office,  a  lofty  cottage,  which 
stood  isolated  above  a  small  ravine  that  had  been 
hastily  spanned  by  a  dam  and  converted  into  a 

These  "  holy  fools,"  or  siinple-niinded  eccentrics,  are  greatly  re- 
spected even  at  the  present  day  in  Russia. — Translator. 

200 


KASYAN   FRO.AI  TIIK   1  AIR-MKTCIlA 

pond.  Ill  that  office  1  found  two  young  mer- 
chants' clerks,  with  snow-white  teeth,  sweet  eyes, 
sweet,  alert  speech,  and  sweetly-wily  little  smiles, 
struck  a  bargain  with  them  for  an  axle,  and  set 
oft'  for  the  clearing.  I  thought  that  Kasyan 
would  remain  with  the  horse,  and  wait  for  me; 
but  he  suddenly  stepped  up  to  me. 

"  Art  thou  going  to  shoot  birds?  " — he  began: 
—"hey?" 

"  Yes,  if  1  find  any." 

"  I  '11  go  with  thee.  .  .  .  May  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thou  mayest." 

And  he  went. — The  area  which  had  been 
cleared  was,  altogether,  about  a  verst  in  extent. 
I  must  confess,  that  1  looked  more  at  Kasyan  than 
at  my  dog.  Not  without  reason  was  he  called 
The  Flea.  Plis  black,  wholly  uncovered  head 
(moreover,  his  hair  was  a  fine  substitute  for  any 
cap)  fairly  hopped  tlirough  the  bushes.  He 
walked  with  remarkable  briskness,  and  kept  con- 
stantly skipping,  as  it  were,  as  he  walked,  bent 
down  incessantly,  plucked  some  weeds  or  other, 
thrust  them  into  his  bosom,  muttered  to  himself, 
and  kept  looking  at  me  and  my  dog,  with  a  very 
strange,  searching  glance.  In  the  low  bushes,  in 
the  undergrowth,  and  on  clearings  there  dwell 
small  grey  birds,  wliich  are  incessantly  flitting 
from  tree  to  tree  and  cliiiping,  suddenly  swoop- 
ing in  flight.  Kasyan  mimicked  them,  and  an- 
swered their  calls ;  a  young  quail  flew  up,  twitter- 

201 


ME.MOIKS    OF    A    SrOllTSMAN 

ing,  from  under  his  very  feet, — he  twittered  hack 
to  it;  a  hirk  hegaii  to  descend  ahove  him,  flutter- 
ing its  wings  and  warhhng  loudly, — Kasyan 
joined  in  its  song.  AVith  me  he  still  would  not 
talk.  .  . 

The  weather  was  magnificent,  still  finer  than 
hefore;  hut  the  heat  did  not  ahate.  Athwart 
the  clear  sky  floated  infrequent,  high-hanging 
clouds  of  a  yellowish-white  line,  like  late-lying 
sno\^'  in  spring,  flat  and  long,  like  reefed  sails. 
Their  fancifully-patterned  edges,  light  and 
downy  as  cotton,  slowly  but  A'isibly  changed  wdth 
every  passing  moment:  they  melted  away,  those 
clouds,  and  no  shadow  fell  from  them.  Kasyan 
and  I  roamed  for  a  long  time  about  the  clearing. 
The  young  shoots,  which  had  not,  as  yet,  managed 
to  extend  themselves  longer  than  an  arsliin,'  sur- 
rounded with  their  smooth,  slender  stems  the  low, 
blackened  stumps;  round,  spongy  excrescences 
with  grey  borders,  those  same  punk-growths  from 
which  tinder  is  made,  clung  close  to  the  stumps; 
the  strawberry  had  sent  forth  its  rosy  tendrils 
over  them;  and  mushrooms  sat  there  also,  close- 
crowded  in  famihes.  One's  feet  were  incessantly 
entangled  and  held  fast  in  the  long  grass,  dried 
tlu'ough  and  through  by  the  burning  sun;  every- 
where the  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  sharp,  metal- 
lic glitter  of  the  young,  reddish  leaves  on  the 

^  Twenty-eifrht    inches — tlie    Russian   measure   corresponding 
to   tiie  yard. — Tkaksi.atok. 

202 


I 


KASYAX  FROlNr  THE  FATR-^SIETCHA 

trees;  all  about,  the  blue  elusters  of  the  vetch,  the 
golden  ehaliees  of  the  buttercups,  the  half-purple 
half-vellow  Mowers  of  John-and-JNIarv  '  i'ormed 
a  gay-coloured  carpet;  here  and  there,  alongside 
the  abandoned  paths,  whereon  the  traces  of  wheels 
were  indicated  by  streaks  of  ii  fine,  red  weed,  rose 
piles  of  firewood  blackened  by  wind  and  rain, 
each  containing  a  cord;  a  faint  shadow  was  cast 
by  their  slanting  corners, — there  was  no  other 
shadow  anywhere.  A  light  breeze  now  woke  up, 
now  subsided:  it  would  suddenly  blow  straight 
in  my  face,  and  frolic,  as  it  were, — rustle  merrily, 
nod  and  flutter  around,  gracefully  rock  the  slen- 
der tips  of  the  ferns,^and  I  would  rejoice  in  it 
.  .  .  but,  lo,  it  has  died  down,  and  everything  is 
calm  again.  Only  the  grasshoppers  shrilled  vig- 
orously, as  though  angry, — and  that  uninter- 
rupted, harsh,  piercing  sound  is  fatiguing.  It 
is  suited  to  the  importunate  heat  of  midday;  it 
seems  to  be  born  of  it,  evoked  by  it,  as  it  were, 
from  the  red-hot  earth. 

At  last,  without  having  hit  upon  a  single  lair 
of  game,  we  reached  the  new  clearing.  There 
the  recently  felled  aspens  lay  sadly  on  the 
ground,  crushing  the  grass  and  the  undergrowth; 
on  some,  leaves  still  green,  but  already  dead,  hung 
limply  from  the  motionless  boughs;  on  others, 
they  had  already  dried  and  ciu'led  up.    From  the 

'  A  iniiit-likc  plant  wliicli  has  l)riclit-piir))le  leaves  and  stems  and 
brifiht-yellow    flowers,    called    "  Iv.-'ni-da-Marva." — Translatob. 

203 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

fresh,  goklt'ii-wliite  chips,  which  hiy  in  heaps 
arouiul  the  hrilhantly  moist  stumps,  there  was  ex- 
haled iiVi  extremely  agreeahle,  hitter  odour.  Far 
away,  nearer  the  grove,  the  axes  were  tapping 
dully,  and,  at  times,  solemnly  and  quietly,  as 
though  howing  and  spreading  out  its  arms,  a 
curlv-foliaged  tree  sank  earthward. 

For  a  long  time,  I  found  no  game ;  at  last,  out 
of  a  spreading  oak-hush,  through  the  wormwood 
with  which  it  was  overgrown,  a  corncrake  flew 
forth.  I  fired;  it  turned  a  somersault  in  the  air, 
and  fell.  On  hearing  the  shot,  Kasyan  swiftly 
covered  his  eyes  M'ith  his  hand,  and  did  not  move 
until  I  had  reloaded  my  gun  and  picked  up. the 
corncrake.  But  when  I  started  onward,  he  went 
up  to  the  spot  where  the  dead  hird  had  fallen,  hent 
down  to  the  grass,  on  which  a  few  drops  of  blood 
were  sprinkled,  shook  his  head,  cast  a  frightened 

glance  at  me Afterward,  I  heard  him 

whispering:  "  A  sin!  ....  Akh,  this  is  a  sin!" 

The  heat  made  us,  at  last,  enter  the  grove.  I 
threw  myself  down  under  a  tall  hazel-bush,  over 
which  a  stately  young  maple  spread  finely  abroad 
its  light  branches.  Kasyan  seated  himself  on  the 
thick  end  of  a  felled  birch-tree.  I  looked  at  him. 
The  foliage  was  swaying  faintly  up  aloft,  and  its 
li(|uid  greenish  shadows  sli])])ed  gently  back  and 
forth  over  his  puny  body,  wra]:)ped  u]),  after  a 
fashion,  in  his  dark  coat,  over  his  small  face.  He 
did  not  raise  his  head.     Bored  bv  his  taciturnity^ 

204 


KASYAX   FKOM    THE   1  AIK-MKTCIIA 

I  lay  on  my  back,  aiitl  began  to  admire  tbe  peace- 
ful play  of  the  tangled  leaves  against  the  far-oft* 
brilliant  sky.  "T  is  a  wonderfully  agreeable  oc- 
cu])atiori,  to  lie  on  one's  back  in  the  forest,  and 
stare  u})ward !  It  seems  to  you  as  though  you  were 
gazing  into  a  bottomless  sea,  that  it  spreads 
broadly  beneath  you,  that  the  trees  do  not  rise  out 
of  the  earth,  but,  like  the  roots  of  huge  plants, 
descend,  hang  suspended,  in  those  crystal-clear 
wa\'es;  the  leaves  on  the  trees  now  are  of  trans- 
lucent emerald,  again  thicken  into  golden,  almost 
black  green.  Somewhere,  far  away,  terminating 
a  slender  branch,  a  separate  leaf  stands  motionless 
against  the  blue  patch  of  transparent  sky,  and  by 
its  side  sways  another,  recalling  by  its  movements 
the  play  of  a  fish's  gills,  as  though  the  movement 
proceeded  from  its  own  volition,  and  were  not 
produced  by  the  breeze.  The  white,  round  clouds 
softly  float  and  softly  pass,  like  enchanted  sub- 
marine islands, — and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  that 
whole  sea,  that  radiant  atmosphere,  those  boughs 
and  leaves  flooded  with  sunlight,  begin  to  undu- 
late, to  tremble  with  a  fugitive  gleam,  and  a  fresh, 
hurried  lisping,  resembling  the  unending,  tiny 
plash  of  swelling  surge,  arises.  You  do  not  stir 
— you  gaze:  and  it  is  impossible  to  express  in 
words  what  joy,  tranquillity,  and  sweetness 
reign  in  your  heart.  You  gaze : — that  deep,  pure 
azure  evokes  a  smile  upon  your  lips,  as  innocent 
as  itself;  as  the  clouds  sail  over  the  sky,  and  in 

205 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSISIAN 

their  company,  as  it  were,  happy  ineniories  pass 
in  garhiiuls  through  your  soul,  and  it  seems  to 
you  tliat  vour  uaze  recedes  further  and  further 
awav,  and  (h'aws  vou  after  it,  into  that  cahn, 
beaming  abyss,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to  tear 
yourself  i'rom  that  height,  from  that  depth  .... 

"Master,  hev  there,  master!" — said  Kasyan, 
suddenly,  in  his  melodious  yoice. 

I  half-rose  M'ith  amazement;  hitherto,  he  had 
barely  answered  my  (juestions,  and  now  he  had 
suddenly  begun  to  speak  of  his  own  accord. 

"  AN^iat  dost  thou  want^  " — I  asked. 

"Well,  why  didst  thou  kill  that  bird?"— he 
began,  looking  me  straight  in  the  face. 

"  AVhat  dost  thou  mean  by  '  why  '?....  The 
corncrake  is  game:  it  can  be  eaten." 

"  That  's  not  the  reason  why  thou  didst  kill  it, 
master:  much  thou  wilt  eat  it!  Thou  hast  killed 
it  for  thine  amusement." 

"  AVhy,  surely,  thou  thyself,  I  suppose,  dost 
eat  geese  and  chickens?  " 

"  That  is  a  bird  appointed  by  God  for  man,  but 
the  corncrake  is  a  free  bird,  a  forest  bird.  And 
not  he  alone:  there  are  quantities  of  them,  of  all 
sorts  of  forest  creatures,  and  creatures  of  the  field, 
and  the  I'iver,  and  the  swamp,  both  up-stream 
and  down-stream, — and  't  is  a  sin  to  kill  them, 
and  they  ought  to  l)e  allowed  to  live  on  the  earth 
until  their  time  comes.  .  .  .  Rut  another  food  is 
appointed  to  man,  a  (hfferent  food  and  a  different 

2()(> 


KASYAN   VnOM  THE   1  AIIMNIKTCIIA 

drink:  grain  is  God's  blessed  gift,  and  the  waters 
of  heaven,  and  tame  fowl,  from  our  ancient  fa- 
thers' day." 

I  stared  in  amazement  at  Kasyan.  Ilis  words 
flowed  fluently;  he  did  not  pause  to  seek  them, 
he  spoke  with  quiet  enthusiasm  and  gentle  digni- 
nity,  closing  his  eyes  from  time  to  time. 

"  And  so,  according  to  thy  view,  it  is  sinful  to 
kill  a  fish,  also?" — I  asked. 

"  A  fish  has  cold  blood," — he  returned,  with 
confidence: — "  a  flsh  is  a  dumb  brute.  It  does  not 
fear,  it  does  not  rejoice:  a  flsh  is  a  creature  with- 
out the  power  of  speech.  A  flsh  does  not  feel,  the 
blood  in  it  is  not  lively.  .  .  Blood," — he  went  on, 
after  a  pause, — "  is  a  holy  thing!  Blood  does  not 
behold  God's  dear  little  sun,  blood  hides  itself 
from  the  light  .  .  .  't  is  a  great  sin  to  show  blood 
to  the  light,  a  great  sin  and  horror.  .  .  .  Okh, 
very  great!  " 

He  sighed,  and  cast  down  his  eyes.  I 
must  admit,  that  I  stared  at  the  strange  old 
man  in  utter  amazement.  His  speech  did  not 
have  the  ring  of  a  peasant:  the  common  peo- 
ple do  not  speak  like  that,  neither  do  flne 
talkers.  This  language  was  thoughtfully-solemn 
and  strange.  ...  I  had  never  heard  anything 
like  it. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  Kasyan," — I  began,  without 
taking  my  eyes  from  his  slightly-flushed  face: — 
"  what  is  thy  occupation?  " 

207 


MEMOIKS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

He  did  not  at  once  answer  my  (juestion.  His 
gaze  roved  uneasily  for  a  moment. 

"  I  live  as  the  Lord  commands," — he  said  at 
last, — "  and,  as  for  an  occupation, — no,  I  have 
none.  I  have  n't  had  much  sense  since  my 
childhood;  I  work,  as  long  as  my  strength  lasts, 
— I  'm  a  poor  workman  ....  how  should  I 
be  otherwise!  1  have  no  health,  and  my  hands 
are  stupid.  Well,  and  in  springtime  I  snare 
nightingales." 

"Thou  snarest  nightingales!' — But  didst  not 
thou  say,  that  one  should  not  touch  any  creature 
of  the  forest  or  the  field,  and  so  forth?  " 

"  They  must  not  be  killed,  that  is  true;  death 
will  take  his  own,  in  any  case.  There  's  ]\Iartvn 
the  carpenter,  for  example:  INIartyn  lived  and 
did  not  live  long,  and  died ;  now  his  wife  is  wast- 
ting  away  with  sorrow  over  her  husband  and  her 
little  children.  .  .  .  Neither  man  nor  beast  can 
cheat  death.  Death  does  not  run,  and  you  can- 
not run  from  it;  but  vou  must  n't  aid  it.  And  I 
don't  kill  the  nightingales, — the  Lord  forbid!  I 
don't  catch  them  for  torture,  nor  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  life,  but  for  man's  pleasure,  consola- 
tion, and  delectation." 

"  Dost  thou  go  to  Kursk  '  to  catch  them?  " 

"I  do  go  to  Kursk,  and  even  further,  as  it 
happens.     I  pass  the  night  in  the  marshes,  and 

'  The   nightingales   of   the    Kursk    Government    are    accounted    the 
finest   in    Russia. — Traxsi-ator. 

208 


KASYAX   FRO]\r  THE  FiVIR-MP:TCIIA 

on  the  borders  of  the  forest;  1  spend  the  night 
alone  in  the  fields,  in  the  wilds:  there  the  snipe 
whistle,  there  the  hares  ery,  there  the  wild  drakes 
quack.^ — In  the  evening  I  observe,  in  the  morn- 
ing I  listen,  at  dawn  I  spread  my  nets  over 
the  bushes.  .  »  .  .  Sometimes  a  nightingale 
sings  so  moui'nfnlly,  so  sweetly  ....  even 
mournfully." 

"  And  ciost  thou  sell  them?  " 

"  I  give  them  away  to  good  people." 

"  And  what  else  dost  thou  do?  " 

"  What  do  1  do?" 

"  What  is  thy  business?  " 

The  old  man  remained  silent  a  while. 

"  I  have  no  business.  ...  I  'm  a  bad  work- 
man.    But  I  can  read  and  write." 

"  Thou  canst?  " 

"  I  can.  The  Lord,  and  good  people,  have 
aided  me.'' 

"  Well,  art  thou  a  family  man?  " 

"  No,  I  have  no  family." 

"How  is  that?  .  .  .  Have  they  all  died?  " 

"  No,  it  just  happened  so;  it  didn't  chance  to 
be  my  luck  in  life.  But  that  is  all  under  God's 
care,  we  all  go  under  God's  care;  and  a  man 
must  be  upright, — so  he  must!  He  must  please 
God,  that  is  to  say." 

"  And  hast  thou  no  relatives?  " 

"  I  have  .  .  .  yes  ....  in  a  way  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  stammered. 

209 


ME.AIOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"Tell  me,  please," — I  began: — "I  heard  my 
coaciimaii  ask  thee,  why  thou  didst  not  heal  Mar- 
tynJ*  Dost  thou  know  how  to  heal?  *' 

"  Thy  eoachman  is  an  u])right  nian," — Kasyan 
answered  me,  thoughtfully: — "but  he  is  not 
without  sin  also.  Tliey  call  me  a  physician.  ..la 
physician,  forsooth!  ....  and  who  can  cure? 
All  that  comes  from  God.  But  there  are  .  .  . 
there  are  plants,  there  are  flowers:  they  do  help, 
really.  Here  's  the  bur-marigold,  for  example ; 
't  is  a  good  weed  for  man ;  here  's  the  plantain, 
too ;  i  is  no  disgrace  to  speak  of  them ;  they  are 
clean  plants — (xod's  plants.  Well,  but  others  are 
not  like  that :  and  they  help,  hut  't  is  a  sin ;  and 
't  is  a  sin  to  speak  of  tliem.  It  might  be  done 
with  ])rayei',  perhaps.  ....  Well,  of  course, 
thei-e  are  words  which  ....  And  he  who  be- 
lieves shall  be  saved/' — he  added,  lowering  his 
voice. 

"  Didst  thou  not  give  JNIartvn  anvthiny?  " — I 
asked. 

"I  heard  of  it  too  late," — replied  the  old  man. 
— "  But  what  of  that! — each  one  will  get  what  is 
written  in  liis  fate.  ^lartyn  was  not  destined  to 
live  long  on  earth :  that 's  a  fact.  Xo,  the  dear 
sun  does  not  warm  a  man  who  is  not  fated  to  live 
long  on  earth,  as  it  does  other  men,  and  neither 
does  his  bread  profit  him, — 't  is  as  though  some- 
thing summoned  him  away.  .  .  .  Yes;  Lord 
rest  his  soul!  " 

210 


KASYAN   FROM  THE   1  AIR-M  1<:TC  HA 

"  Is  it  loim'  since  tlicv  sent  vou  to  live  in  our 
jjarts?  " — 1  asked  liini,  after  a  brief  silence. 

Kasyan  gave  a  start. 

"  No,  not  long:  four  years.  In  the  old  master's 
time,  we  always  lixed  in  our  former  place,  but  the 
Council  of  (iuardians  removed  us.  Our  old  mas- 
ter was  a  gentle  soul,  a  meek  man, — the  kingdom 
of  heaven  be  his!  Well,  the  Council  of  Guar- 
dians judged  rightly,  of  course;  't  is  evident,  that 
so  it  was  right." 

"  But  where  did  you  formerly  live?  " 

"  We  are  from  the  Fair-Metcha." 

"  Is  that  far  from  here?  " 

"  About  a  hundred  versts." 

"  And  was  it  better  than  here?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  't  was  better.  There  the  lands  were 
fertile  river-meadows,  our  nest;  but  here  we 
have  cramped  lands,  and  drought.  .  .  .  We  are 
orphaned  here.  Yonder,  at  our  Fair-lNIetcha  you 
would  climb  a  hill,  and  climb — and,  O  I^ord  my 
God,  what  did  you  see?  hey  ?  River,  and  meadows, 
and  forest;  and  there  was  a  church  there,  and 
then  the  meadows  began  again,  you  could  see 
far,  far  away.  How  far  you  could  see!  .  .  .  you 
gaze  and  gaze, — akh,  truly,  you  cannot  express 
your  feelings!  Well,  here,  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
land  is  better:  clay,  good- clay,  say  the  peasants; 
and  my  orain  bears  well  everywhere." 

"  Come,  old  man,  tell  me  the  truth:  I  think 
thou  wouldst  like  to  visit  thy  native  place?  " 

211 


aME:S101KS    OF   A    SPOKTS:\IAN 


<*  A''. 


Yes,  I  would  like  to  have  u  look  at  it.  But 
't  is  good  everywhere.  1  in  a  man  without  a 
family,  a  rover.  Well,  and  that  's  nothing!  can 
one  sit  much  at  home  (  But  when  you  walk,  when 
you  walk,"  he  interposed,  raising  his  voice,  "  your 
heart  is  lighter,  in  truth.  The  dear  little  sun 
lights  you,  and  you  are  more  visihle  to  God,  and 
can  sing  in  hettei"  tune.  Vou  look  to  see  what 
grass  is  growing;  well,  you  ohserve  it,  you  pluck 
it.  The  water  flows  fresh  from  a  spring,  for  ex- 
ample: holy  water;  so  you  drink  your  fill, — you 
note  it  also.  The  heavenly  birds  sing.  .  .  And 
then,  beyond  Kursk  lie  steppes,  such  level  steppes, 
and  there  is  wonder  and  satisfaction  for  a  man, 
there  is  liberty,  there  is  God's  grace!  And  they 
extend,  so  people  say,  clear  to  the  warm  seas, 
where  the  bird  Gamaiun  the  sweet-voiced  dwells, 
and  the  leaves  do  not  fall  from  the  trees  in  winter, 
nor  in  autumn,  and  golden  apples  grow  on  silver 
boughs,  and  every  man  lives  in  abundance  and 
uprightness,  .  .  For  I  "ve  been  in  ever  so  many 
places!  I  've  been  to  Romyon,  and  in  Simbirsk 
the  splendid  town,  and  in  golden-domed  ^Moscow 
too;  I  've  been  on  our  benefactress  the  Oka 
River,  and  on  the  Tzna,  the  darling,  and  on  dear 
little  mother  Volga,  and  have  seen  many  people, 
kind  peasants,  and  have  tarried  in  honourable 
towns.  .  .  .  Well,  T  would  like  to  go  thither — 
and  you  see  ....  and  yet  ....  And  I  'm  not 
the  only  sinful  one  ....  many  other  peasants 

212 


1 


KASYAN  FROM  THE  1  AIR-METCIIA 

wear  liiulen-bark  slippers,  roam  about  the  world, 
seek  the  truth  ....  yes!  ....  15ut  as  for 
home,  hey?  There's  no  upriglitness  in  man — 
that  there  is  n't " 

These  last  words  Kasyan  uttered  rapidly,  al- 
most unintelligibly;  tlien  he  said  something  more, 
which  1  could  not  catch,  and  his  face  assumed  such 
a  strange  expression,  tliat  I  involuntarily  recalled 
the  appellation  "  holy  fool."  He  cast  down  his 
eyes,  cleared  his  throat,  and  seemed  to  recover 
himself. 

"What  a  dear  little  sun!" — he  said  in  an 
undertone: — "What  grace,- — O  I^ord!  what 
warmth  in  the  forest!  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, glanced  abstractedly  about,  and  began  to 
sing  softly.  I  could  not  catch  all  the  words  of 
his  drawling  song;  but  I  heard  the  following: 

"  They  call  me  Kasyan, 
Nicknamed  The  Flea.   .   ,   ." 

"Eh!"^ — thought  I: — "why,  he's  improvis- 
ing." ....  All  at  once  he  started,  and  stopped 
short,  staring  intently  into  the  dense  part  of  the 
forest.  I  turned  round,  and  perceived  a  small 
peasant  maiden,  ten  years  of  age,  in  a  little  blue 
sarafan,^   ^^'ith  a  checked  kerchief  on  her  head, 

'  The  true  peasant  gown,  gatliered  full  on  a  band,  falling  in 
straight  folds  from  the  armpits,  and  sujijiorted  by  cross-bands 
over  the  shoulders. — Traxslator. 

213 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

and  a  j^laited  basket  in  her  bare,  sunburned  hand. 
She  had,  probably,  not  in  the  least  expected  to 
encounter  us;  she  had  hit  on  us,  as  the  expression 
is,  and  stood  motionless  in  a  green  clump  of  hazel- 
bushes  in  a  shady  little  glade,  timidly  gazing  at 
me  with  her  black  eyes.  1  barely  managed  to 
suryey  her :  she  immediately  ducked  behind  a  tree. 

"Annushka!  xVnnushka!  come  hither,  fear 
not," — called  the  old  man,  affectionately. 

"  I  'm  afraid," — resounded  a  shrill  little  yoice. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  come  to  me." 

Annushka  silently  abandoned  her  ambush, 
softly  made  the  circuit  of  it, — her  childish  foot- 
steps were  hardly  audi})le  on  the  thick  grass, — 
and  emerged  from  the  thicket  close  to  the  old 
man.  She  was  not  a  child  of  eight,  as  she  had 
seemed  to  me  at  first,  from  her  stunted  growth, 
but  of  thirteen  or  fourteeen.  Her  whole  body 
was  small  and  thin,  but  very  well  made  and  agile, 
and  her  pretty  little  face  bore  a  remarkable  re- 
semblance to  that  of  Kasyan,  although  Kasyan 
was  not  a  beauty.  There  Avere  the  same  sharp 
features,  the  same  strange  gaze,  cunning  and  con- 
fiding, thoughtful  and  piercing,  and  the  move- 
ments were  the  same.  .  .  .  Kasyan  lan  his  eyes 
over  her;  she  was  standing  with  her  side  to  him. 

"  Well,  hast  thou  been  gathering  nuishrooms?  " 
— he  asked. 

"  Yes,  mushrooms,"^ — she  replied,  with  a  shy 
smile. 


K  AS  VAN    1  JiOiM   TllK   FA  I  H-M  J  yiC'II  A 

"  Iliist  thou  foiHul  iiiiiiiy?  " 

"  Yes."  (She  darted  a  swift  glaiiee  at  him, 
and  smiled  again.) 

"  And  are  there  any  white  ones?  " 

"  Yes,  some  are  white." 

"  Show  tlicm,  show  tlicm."  .  .  .  (She  lowered 
the  hasket  from  her  arm  and  half -raised  a  broad 
burdoek  leaf,  whieh  covered  the  mnslirooms.  )  — 
"Kh!"— said  Kasyan,  ])en(ling  over  the  basket; 
"why,  what  splendid  ones!  Good  for  thee,  An- 
nushka! " 

Is  this  thy  daughter,   Kasyan?" — I  asked. 
( Annushka's  face  flushed  faintly.) 

"No,  just  a  relative," — said  Kasyan,  with 
i'eigncd  carelessness. — "  A  Yell,  run  along,  An- 
mishka," — he  immediately  added: — "run  along, 
iind  Ciod  be  with  thee.     And  see  here  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  why  should  she  go  afoot?  " — I  inter- 
rupted him. — "  We  will  drive  her  with  us." 

Annushka  flushed  as  scarlet  as  a  poppy,  seized 
tlie  handle  of  the  basket  witli  both  hands,  and  cast 
a  glance  of  trepidation  at  the  old  man. 

"  No,  she  '11  get  there,  all  right," — he  re- 
turned, in  the  same  indifferently-drawling  tone. 
— "  What  is  it  to  her?  .  .  .  She  '11  get  there  as 
she  is.  .  .  .  Run  along." 

Annushka  w^alked  off  briskly  into  the  forest. 
Kasyan  gazed  after  her,  then  cast  down  his  eyes, 
and  smiled.  In  that  prolonged  smile,  in  the  few 
words  which  he  had  uttered  to  Annushka,  in  the 

215 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAX 

very  sound  ui'  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to  her, 
there  was  inexphcahle,  passionate  love  and  ten- 
derness. He  cast  another  ghmce  in  the  direction 
whither  she  had  gone,  smiled  again,  and,  mopping 
his  face,  shook  his  head  several  times. 

"Why  didst  tliou  send  her  off  so  soon?" — I 
asked  him: — "  I  would  have  liked  to  })uy  her 
mushrooms " 

"  But  you  can  huy  them  at  home,  just  as  well, 
whenever  you  like,"- — he  answered  me,  for  the 
first  time  addressing  me  as  "  you." 

"  Thou  hast  there  a  very  pretty  girl." 

"  Xo.  .  .  .  The  idea!  ....  So-so  .  .  ."  he 
replied,  reluctantly,  as  it  were;  and,  from  that 
moment,  relapsed  into  his  former  taciturnity. 

Perceiving  that  all  my  efforts  to  make  him  talk 
again  were  vain,  I  wended  my  way  to  the  clear- 
ing. jNIoreover,  the  heat  had  decreased  some- 
what; but  my  ill-success  continued,  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  settlement  with  nothing  but  the 
one  corncrake  and  a  new  axle.  As  we  were  driv- 
ing into  the  yard,  Kasyan  suddenly  turned  to 
me. 

"Master,  eh.  Master," — said  he: — "I  am  to 
blame  toward  thee ;  f pr  't  was  I  that  drove  all  the 
game  away  from  thee." 

"  How  so? " 

"  Well,  that 's  mv  secret.  And  thou  hast  a 
trained  hound,  and  a  good  one,  but  thou  couldst 
do  nothing.    AVIien  you  come  to  think  of  it,  what 

2ir> 


KASYAN  ymm   riiK  iaik-metcha 

are  men, — men,  hey?  Man's  a  \\'\\d  beast,  but  see 
what  lias  been  done  with  him!  " 

It  would  have  been  useless  for  me  t(j  try 
to  convince  Kasyan  that  it  was  impossible  to 
"  bewitcli  "  the  game,  therefore  1  made  him  no 
reply.  And  besides,  we  immediatelj^  turned  into 
the  gate. 

Annushka  was  not  in  the  cottage ;  she  had  man- 
aged to  get  there  already  and  leave  her  basket  of 
mushrooms.  Erofei  fitted  the  axle  in  place,  after 
having  subjected  it  preliminarily  to  severe  and 
unjust  criticism;  and  an  hour  later,  I  drove  out, 
having  left  Kasyan  a  little  money,  which,  at  first, 
he  did  not  wish  to  accept;  but  afterward,  when  he 
had  reflected  and  held  it  in  his  palm,  he  thrust 
it  into  his  bosom.  He  hardly  uttered  a  single 
word  during  the  course  of  that  hour;  he  stood 
as  before,  leaning  against  the  gate,  made  no  re- 
ply to  the  reproaches  of  my  coachman,  and  took 
an  extremely  cold  leave  of  me. 

As  soon  as  I  returned,  I  observed  that  my 
Erofei  ^vas  again  in  a  gloomy  frame  of  mind. 
.  .  .  And,  in  fact,  he  had  not  found  a  morsel  to 
eat  in  the  village,  and  the  watering  facilities  for 
his  horses  Avere  bad.  We  drove  off.  With  dissat- 
isfaction expressed  even  in  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
he  sat  on  the  box  and  was  frightfully  anxious  to 
enter  into  conversation  with  mc;  but,  in  antici- 
pation of  my  putting  tlie  first  question,  he  con- 
fined himself  to  a  low  growling  under  his  breath, 

21T 


MEMOIRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

and  hortatory,  sometimes  vicious  s})eeches  ad- 
dressed to  liis  horses. — -"A  viUa(>'e!" — he  mut- 
tered: "A  pretty  sort  of  village,  forsooth!  I 
asked  for  just  a  little  kvas — and  there  was  no 

kvas Akh,   O   Lord!    ^Vnd   the  water, — 

simply — phew!"  (He  spat  aloud.)  "No  cu- 
cumhers,  no  kvas, — no  nothing.  .  .  .  Come  now, 
thou,"^ — ^he  added  in  a  loud  tone,  addressing  the 
right  trace-horse: — "I  know  thee,  thou  pam- 
pered heast !  Thou  'rt  fond  of  indulging  thyself, 
I  think.  .  .  ."  (And  he  lashed  it  witli  his  whip.) 
"  The  horse  has  grown  thoroughly  crafty,  hut 
what  a  willing  heast  it  used  to  he!  .  .  .  Come, 
come,  look  round  this  way!  "  ^     

"  Tell  me,  j^lease,  Erofei," — I  hegan: — "  what 
sort  of  a  man  is  Kasvan?  " 

Erofei  did  not  answer  me  promptly;  he  was, 
in  general,  a  deliberate,  leisurely  man ;  but  I  was 
instantly  able  to  divine  that  my  question  had 
delighted  and  reassiu'ed  him. 

"  The  Flea,  you  mean?  " — he  said,  at  last,  jerk- 
ing at  the  reins: — "  he  's  a  splendid  man:  a  holy 
fool,  right  enough  he  is;  you  won't  soon  find 
another  such  fine  man.  Now,  for  example,  he  's, 
point  for  point,  exactly  like  our  roan  horse  yon- 
der: he  's  incorrigible,  has  got  out  of  hand, — that 
is  to  say,  he  has  struck  work.    Well,  and,  after  all, 

'A  well-trained  trace-horse  (which  gallops),  in  a  three-horse 
span  (a  tr6ika),  is  supposed  to  hold  its  iiead  lowered  and  twisted 
backward,  so  that  the  jiersons  in  tlie  carriage  can  see  its  eyes  and 
nostrils. — Tkansi.atoh. 

218 


KASYxVX   FROM   TIIK   1  AIU-^SIETCIIA 

what  sort  of  a  workman  is  he,  what  a  wretclicd 
body  holds  Iiis  soul, — well,  and,  all  the  same  .... 
You  see,  he  has  been  so  from  his  ehildhood.  At 
first,  he  used  to  go  with  his  uncles  in  the  carrying 
business:  he  had  three  of  them;  well,  and  then, 
later  on,  you  know,  he  got  tired  of  that — he 
threw  it  up.  He  began  to  live  at  home,  and  he 
would  n't  even  sit  still  at  home :  such  an  uneasy 
man  he  was, — a  regular  flea.  Luckily  for  him, 
he  happened  to  have  a  kind  master  who  did  n't 
force  him.  So,  from  that  time  forth,  he  has  been 
lounging  about,  like  an  unconfined  sheep.  And 
such  a  wonderful  man  he  is,  God  knows:  some- 
times he  's  as  silent  as  a  stump,  then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  he  '11  start  to  talk, — and  what  he  '11  say, 
God  knows.  Is  that  any  way  to  do?  'T  is  not. 
He  's  an  inconsistent  man,  so  he  is.  But  he  sings 
w^ell.     So  solemnly — 't  is  fine,  fine." 

"  And  does  he  really  heal?  " 

"  Heal,  do  you  mean?  .  .  .  Come,  how  could 
he!  As  if  he  were  that  sort  of  a  man!  But  he 
cured  me  of  scrofula.  .  .  How  could  he !  He  's 
a  stupid  man,  so  he  is," — he  added,  after  a  brief 
pause. 

"  Hast  thou  known  him  long?  " 

"  Yes.  He  and  I  were  neighbours  in  Syt- 
chovko,  on  the  Fair  JNIetcha." 

"  And  who  is  that  young  girl,  Annushka,  who 
met  us  in  the  forest, — is  she  a  relative  of 
his?  " 

219 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

Erofei  glanced  at  iiic  over  his  shoulder,  and 
grinned  to  the  full  extent  of  his  mouth. 

"Eh!  ....  Yes,  she's  a  relative.  She's  an 
orphan :  she  has  no  mother,  and  no  one  knows  who 
her  mother  was.  Well,  and  she  must  he  related 
to  him:  she's  awfully  like  him.  .  .  .  Well,  and 
slie  lives  with  liim.  She  's  a  sharp-witted  girl, 
there  's  no  denying  it:  she  's  a  good  girl,  and  he, 
the  old  man,  fairly  adores  her:  she  is  a  good  girl. 
And  't  is  very  likely,  although  you  might  not  be- 
lieve it,  that  he  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to  teach 
his  Annushka  to  read  and  write.  That 's  just 
what  you  might  expect  of  liim:  he  's  such  a  pecu- 
liar man.  So  fickle,  even  ill-balanced,  even  .  .  . 
E-e-eh!"  my  coachman  suddenly  interrupted 
himself,  and  pulling  up  his  horses,  bent  over  to 
one  side,  and  began  to  sniff  the  air. — "  Don't  I 
smell  something  burning?  That  I  do!  1  would  n't 
give  a  rap  for  these  new  axles.  .  .  .  But,  appar- 
ently, I  greased  it  all  right.  I  must  go  and  fetch 
some  water:  yonder  is  a  ])ond  handy,  by  the  way." 

And  Erofei  slowly  climbed  down  from  his  seat, 
untied  the  bucket,  went  to  the  pond,  and,  on  his 
return,  listened,  not  without  satisfaction,  to  the 
hissing  of  the  wheel-box,  suddenly  gripped  by 
the  water.  ...  In  the  space  of  about  ten  versts, 
he  was  forced  to  deluge  the  axle  six  times,  and 
niglit  had  fully  closed  in  when  we  reached  home. 


220 


THE  AGENT 

About  fifteen  versts  from  my  estate,  lives  an  ac- 
(luaintance  of  mine,  a  young  landed  proprietor, 
a  retired  officer  of  the  Ciuards,  Arkady  Pavliteli 
Pyenotchkin.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  game  on  his 
estate,  his  house  is  huilt  after  a  plan  by  a  French 
architect,  his  servants  are  dressed  in  English  style, 
he  gives  capital  dinners,  welcomes  his  guests  cor- 
dially, and,  nevertheless,  one  is  reluctant  to  go  to 
his  house.  He  is  a  sagacious,  positive  man,  has 
received  a  fine  education,  as  is  proper,  has  been 
in  the  service,  has  mingled  with  the  highest  so- 
ciety, and  now  occupies  himself,  very  success- 
fully, with  the  administration  of  his  property. 
Arkady  Pavlitch,  to  use  his  own  words,  is  stern 
but  just,  is  deeply  concerned  for  the  welfare  of 
his  subjects,  and  chastises  them — for  their  own 
good.  "  One  must  treat  them  like  children,"  he 
says,  on  such  occasions:  "their  ignorance,  mo?i 
cher,  il  faut  prendre  ccla  en  consideration."  But 
on  tlie  occasions  of  such  so-called  sad  necessity, 
lie  avoids  harsh  and  impetuous  movements,  and  is 
not  fond  of  raising  liis  voice,  but  is  rather  given 
to  poking  his  finger  straight  out  before  him, 
calmly  remarking:  "  Thou  knowest,  I  requested 

221 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

thee,  my  dear  fellow,"  or:  "  What  ails  thee,  my 
friend?  Come  to  thy  senses;"  merely  compressing 
his  lips  a  little  the  while,  and  twisting  his  mouth. 
He  is  short  of  stature,  elegantly  built,  very  good- 
looking,  keeps  his  liands  and  finger-nails  with  the 
greatest  neatness;  his  rosy  lips  and  face  fairly 
glow  with  health.  His  laugh  is  resonant  and 
care-free,  he  screws  up  his  bright  brown  ej'^es 
a^ffahly.  He  dresses  extremely  well,  and  with 
taste;  he  imports  French  books,  pictures,  and 
newspapers,  but  is  not  very  fond  of  reading:  he 
has  barely  conquered  "  The  Wandering  Jew." 
He  plays  cards  in  a  masterlj^  manner.  Alto- 
gether, Arkady  Pavlitch  is  regarded  as  one  of 
the  most  cultured  noblemen  and  most  enviable 
matrimonial  catches  in  our  government;  the  la- 
dies are  wild  over  him,  and  praise  his  manners  in 
particular.  His  demeanour  is  wonderfully  good, 
he  is  as  cautious  as  a  cat,  and  has  never  been 
mixed  up  in  any  scandal  since  he  was  born,  al- 
though, on  occasion,  he  is  fond  of  asserting 
himself  and  reducing  a  timid  man  to  confusion. 
He  positively  loathes  bad  company — he  is  afraid 
of  compromising  himself;  on  the  other  hand 
in  jovial  moments,  he  announces  himself  to  be 
a  disciple  of  Epicurus,  although,  on  the  whole, 
he  speaks  ill  of  philosophy,  calling  it  "  the 
foggy  food  of  German  brains,"  and  sometimes 
simply  "  nonsense."  He  is  fond  of  music,  also; 
at  cards,  he  hums  through  his  teeth,  but  with  feel- 

222 

-f 


THE  AGENT 

ing;  he  remembers  something)'  from  ".Lucia  "  and 
"  Sonnambiila, "  but  always  gets  the  pitcli  rather 
liigh.  In  winter,  he  goes  to  Petersburg.  His 
liouse  is  in  remarkable  order;  even  his  coachmen 
have  succumbed  to  his  influence,  and  every  day 
they  not  only  wipe  off  the  horse-collars  and  brush 
their  coats,  but  even  wash  their  own  faces.  Ar- 
kady Pavlitch's  house-serfs,  't  is  true,  have  a 
rather  sidelong  look, —  but  with  us  in  Russia  one 
cannot  distinguish  the  surly  man  from  the  sleepy 
man.  Arkady  Pavlitch  speaks  in  a  soft  and 
agreeable  voice,  with  pauses,  emitting  every 
word  with  pleasure,  as  it  were,  through  his  hand- 
some, perfumed  moustache;  he  also  employs  a 
great  many  French  expressions,  such  as :  "  Mais, 
cest  imimyahle!  " — "  Mais,  co7nment  done?  " — 
and  so  forth.  Nevertheless,  I,  for  one,  am  not 
overfond  of  visiting  him,  and  if  it  were  not  for 
the  black-cock  and  partridges,  I  should,  in  all 
probability,  drop  his  acquaintance  entirely.  A 
certain  strange  uneasiness  takes  possession  of 
you  in  his  house ;  even  the  comfort  does  not  glad- 
den you,  and  every  time  that,  at  evening,  the 
ciu'led  valet  presents  himself  before  you,  in  his 
sky-blue  livery  with  buttons  stamped  with  a  coat 
of  arms,  and  begins  obsequiously  to  pull  off  your 
boots,  you  feel  that  if,  instead  of  his  pale  and 
lean  face  the  wonderfully  broad  cheek-bones  and 
incredibly-blunt  nose  of  a  stalwart  young  peas- 
ant, only  just  taken  from  the  plough  by  his  mas- 

223 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

ter,  but  who  had  ah-eady  contrived  to  burst  in 
half  a  score  of  places,  the  seams  of  the  nankeen 
coat  recently  presented  to  him,  were  suddenly  to 
appear  before  you, — you  would  be  unspeakably 
delighted,  and  would  willingly  subject  yourself 
to  the  danger  of  being  stripped  of  your  boot  and 

your  leg,  together,  up  to  the  very  hip- joint 

In  spite  of  my  dislike  for  Arkady  Pavlitch,  I 
once  happened  to  pass  the  night  with  liim.  On 
the  following  day,  early  in  the  morning,  I  or- 
dered my  calash  to  be  harnessed  up,  but  he  would 
not  let  me  go  without  breakfast  in  the  English 
fashion,  and  conducted  me  to  his  study.  Along 
with  tea,  thev  served  us  cutlets,  soft-boiled  eggs, 
butter,  honey,  cheese,  and  so  forth.  Two  valets, 
in  clean  white  gknes,  swiftly  and  silently  antici- 
pated our  slightest  wishes.  We  sat  on  a  Persian 
divan.  Arkady  Pavlitch  wore  full  trousers. of 
silk,  a  black  velvet  round  jacket,  a  red  fez  with  a 
blue  tassel,  and  yellow  Chinese  slippers,  without 
heels.  He  drank  tea,  laughed,  inspected  his 
finger-nails,  smoked,  tucked  pillows  under  his 
ribs,  and,  altogether,  felt  in  a  capital  frame  of 
mind.  After  having  breakfasted  heartily,  and 
with  evident  pleasure,  Arkady  Pavlitch  poured 
himself  out  a  glass  of  red  wine,  raised  it  to  his 
lips,   and   suddenly   contracted   his   brows   in    a 

frown. 

"Why  hasn't  the  wine  been  warmed?" — ^he 
asked  one  of  the  valets  in  a  rather  sharp  voice. 

224 


THE  AGENT 

The  valet  grew  confused,  stood  stock-still,  and 
turned  pale. 

"  Am  not  I  asking  thee  a  question,  my  dear 
fellow?" — went  on  Arkady  Pavlitch,  calmly, 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  him. 

The  unhappy  valet  shifted  from  foot  to  foot 
where  he  stood,  twisted  his  napkin,  and  uttered 
never  a  word.  Arkady  Pavlitch  lowered  his 
head,  and  gazed  thouglitfully  askance  at  him. 

"  Pardon,  mem  clierf — he  said,  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  giving  my  knee  a  friendly  touch  with  his 
hand,  and  again  rivetting  his  eyes  on  the  valet. — 
"  Well,  go," — he  added,  after  a  hrief  silence,  ele- 
vated his  eyebrows,  and  rang  the  bell. 

There  entered  a  thick-set,  swarthy,  black- 
haired  man,  with  a  low  forehead,  and  eyes  com- 
pletely buried  in  fat. 

"  With  regard  to  Feodor take  mea- 
sures,"— said  Arkady  Pavlitch  in  an  undertone, 
and  with  entire  self-possession. 

"  I  obey,  sir,"^ — replied  the  thick-set  man,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  Voila,  mon  cher,  les  desagrhnents  de  la  cam- 
pagne" — remarked  Arkady  Pavlitch,  merrily. 
"  But  where  are  you  going?  stay,  sit  with  me  a 
while  longer." 

"  No," — I  answered: — "  I  must  go." 

"Always  hunting!  Okh,  I  have  no  patience 
with  those  sportsmen!  But  where  are  you 
gomg  f 

225 


.ME.MOIKS    OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

"  To  Rviibovo,  forty  versts  from  here." 

"  To  Ryabovo?  Akh,  good  heavens,  in  that 
case  I  will  go  w  ith  you.  Ryabovo  is  only  five 
versts  from  my  Shipilovka,  and  1  have  n't  been 
to  Sliipilovka  for  ever  so  long:  1  have  never  man- 
aged to  make  the  time.  Now  it  has  happened 
(luite  opportunely:  do  you  hunt  at  Ryabovo  to- 
day, and  come  to  my  house  in  the  evening.  Ce 
sera  channant.  Wa  will  sup  together, — we  will 
take  a  cook  with  us, — you  shall  spend  the  night 
with  m.e.  Splendid!  splendid!  " — he  added,  with- 
out awaiting  my  reply.  "  C'est  arrange.  .  .  . 
Hey,  who  is  there  ?  Order  the  calash  to  be  brought 
round  for  us,  and  be  quick  about  it.  You  have  n't 
been  to  Shipilovka  ?  I  should  be  ashamed  to  sug- 
gest your  passing  the  night  in  my  agent's  cottage, 
^vere  it  not  that  I  know  you  are  not  fastidious, 
and  would  have  to  pass  the  night  in  a  hay-barn  at 
Ryabovo.  .   .  .   Come  on,  come  on!  " 

And  Arkady  Pavlitcli  began  to  sing  some 
French  romance  or  other. 

"  But  perhaps  you  do  not  know," — he  went  on, 
rocking  himself  to  and  fro  on  both  legs: — "  my 
peasants  there  are  on  quit-rent.  I  'm  such  a  li))- 
eral  man, — but  what  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?  They  pay  me  their  dues  promptly,  however; 
I  would  have  put  them  on  husbandry-service 
long  ago,  I  confess,  but  there  is  too  little  land; 
and  I  'm  amazed,  as  it  is,  how  they  make  both 
ends  meet.     However,   c'est  leur  affaire.     My 

226 


THE  AGENT 

agent  there  is  a  fine  fellow,  unc  forte  tctc,  a  states- 
man! VoLi  will  see.  .  .  .  How  eonveniently  this 
has  happened,  really!  " 

Thei"e  was  no  help  for  it.  Instead  of  setting 
out  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we  set  out  at 
two.  Sportsmen  will  understand  my  impatience. 
Arkady  Pa\'litch  was  fond,  as  he  expressed  him- 
self, of  indulging  himself  on  occasion,  and  took 
with  him  such  an  endless  mass  of  linen,  provisions, 
clothing,  perfumes,  pillows,  and  various  dressing- 
cases,  that  an  economical  and  self-contained  Ger- 
man would  have  thought  tliere  w^as  enough  of 
these  blessings  to  last  him  a  whole  year.  Every 
time  we  descended  a  declivity,  Arkady  Pavlitch 
made  a  brief  but  powerful  speech  to  the  coach- 
man, from  which  I  w  as  able  to  deduce  the  infer- 
ence, that  my  friend  was  a  good  deal  of  a  coward. 
However,  the  joiu'ney  was  accomplished  with 
entire  safety;  only  on  one  recently-repaired 
])ridge  the  cart  with  the  cook  tumbled  in,  and  the 
hind  wheel  crushed  his  stomach. 

Arkady  Pavlitch,  at  the  sight  of  the  downfall 
of  his  home-bied  Karem,  became  seriously  fright- 
ened, and  immediately  gave  orders  to  inquire: 
"Were  his  arms  w^hole?"  On  receiving  an  affirma- 
tive  answer,  he  immediately  regained  his  compo- 
sure. Nevertheless,  we  were  a  good  while  on  the 
way;  I  rode  in  the  same  calash  with  Arkady  Pav- 
litch,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  iournev  I  felt 
bored  to  death,  the  more  so  as  in  the  course  of 


227 


me:moirs  of  a  sportsman 

several  hours  my  acquaintance  had  turned  utterly 
insipid,  and  had  begun  to  proclaim  liberal  views. 
At  last,  we  arrived,  only  not  at  Ryabovo  but  di- 
rectly at  Shipilovka:  somehow,  that  was  the  way 
it  turned  out.  Even  without  that,  I  coidd  not 
have  hunted  my  fill  on  that  day,  and  therefore, 
possessing  my  soul  in  patience,  I  submitted  to 
my  fate. 

The  cook  had  arrived  a  few  minutes  in  advance 
of  us,  and,  evidently,  had  already  succeeded  in 
making  his  arrangements,  and  notifying  the 
proper  persons,  for  at  our  very  entrance  into  the 
boundaries  we  were  met  by  the  elder  (the  agent's 
son),  a  stalwart  and  red-haired  peasant,  a  good 
seven  feet  in  height,  on  horseback  and  without  his 
cap,  in  a  new  peasant-coat  wide-open  on  the  chest. 
"And  where  is  SofrcSn?" — -Arkady  Pavlitch 
asked  him.  The  elder  first  sprang  alertly  from 
his  horse,  made  an  obeisance  to  the  girdle  to  his 
master,  said:  "  Good-morning,  dear  little  father, 
Arkady  Pavlitch,"  then  raised  his  head,  shook 
himself,  and  announced  that  Sofron  had  gone 
to  PerofF,  })ut  that  he  had  already  been  sent  for. 
— "  Well,  follow  us," — said  Arkadv  Pavlitch. 
The  elder  led  his  horse  aside,  out  of  decorum, 
sprang  on  its  back,  and  set  off  at  a  trot  behind 
the  calash,  holding  his  cap  in  his  hand.  AVe  drove 
through  the  village.  Several  peasants  in  empty 
carts  met  us;  they  were  driving  from  the  thresh- 
ing-floor and  singing  songs,  jouncing  about  with 

228 


THE  AGENT 

their  whole  bodies,  and  with  their  legs  dangling 
in  the  air;  but  at  the  sight  of  our  calash  and  of 
the  elder,  they  suddenly  fell  silent,  doffed  their 
winter  caps  (it  was  summer-time),  and  half -rose, 
as  though  awaiting  orders.  Arkady  Pavlitch 
graciously  saluted  them.  An  alarming  agitation 
liad,  evidently,  spread  abroad  throughout  the  vil- 
lage. Women  in  plaidcd,  liome-woven  wool  pet- 
ticoats were  flinging  chi])s  at  unsagacious  or  too 
zealous  dogs,  a  lame  old  man  with  a  beard  which 
started  just  under  his  eyes  jerked  his  lialf- 
watered  horse  away  from  the  v/e\\,  smote  it  in  the 
ribs,  for  some  unknown  reason,  and  then  made  his 
obeisance.  Dirty  little  boys,  in  long  shirts,  ran 
howling  to  the  cottages,  flung  themselves,  belly 
down,  on  the  thresholds,  Iiung  their  heads,  kicked 
their  legs  in  the  air,  and  in  this  manner  rolled 
with  great  agility  past  the  door,  into  the  dark  an- 
teroom, whence  they  did  not  again  emerge. 
Even  the  chickens  scuttled  headlong,  in  an  accel- 
erated trot,  under  the  board  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gate ;  one  gallant  cock,  with  a  black  breast,  which 
resembled  a  black-satin  waistcoat,  and  a  hand- 
some tail,  which  curled  over  to  his  very  comb,  had 
intended  to  remain  in  the  road,  and  was  on  the 
very  point  of  crowing,  but  suddenly  was  seized 
with  confusion,  and  fled  also.  The  agent's  cot- 
tage stood  apart  from  the  rest,  in  the  middle  of  a 
thick  green  hemp-patch.  We  drew  up  at  the 
gate.      Mr.     Pyenotchkin     rose,     picturesquely 

229 


JNIEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

flung  aside  his  cloak,  and  alighted  from  the  ca- 
lash, casting  courteous  glances  around  him.  The 
agent's  wife  received  us  with  low  reverences,  and 
approached  to  kiss  the  master's  hand.  Arkady 
Pavlitch  allowed  her  to  kiss  it  to  her  heart's  con- 
tent, and  ascended  to  the  porch.  In  the  ante- 
room, in  a  dark  corner,  stood  the  elder's  wife,  and 
she  also  bowed  low,  but  did  not  venture  to  kiss 
his  hand.  In  the  so-called  cold  cottage,^  on  the 
right  of  the  anteroom,  two  other  women  were  al- 
ready bustling  about :  they  had  carried  thence  all 
sorts  of  rubbish,  empty  tubs,  sheepskin  coats 
which  had  grown  stiff  as  wood,  butter-pots,  and 
a  cradle  with  a  pile  of  rags  and  a  gay-coloured 
baby,  and  had  swept  up  the  dirt  witli  a  bath- 
besom. 

Arkady  Pavlitch  banished  them  from  the 
room,  and  placed  himself  on  the  wall-bench, 
under  the  holy  pictures.  The  coachmen  began 
to  bring  in  trunks,  coffers,  and  other  conveni- 
ences, using  their  utmost  endeavours  to  subdue 
the  clumping  of  their  heavy  boots. 

In  the  meantime,  Arkady  Pavlitch  was  ques- 
tioning the  elder  about  tjie  harvest,  the  sowing, 
and  other  agricultural  subjects.  The  elder  re- 
plied satisfactorily,  but,  somehow,  languidly  and 
awkwardly,  as  though  he  were  buttoning  his  kaf- 
tan witli  half-frozen  fingers.     He  stood  by  the 

'  A  '*  cold  "  cottage,  or  cliurcli,  in  Russia  means  one  that  is  not 
furnished  with  the  means  of  heating. — TKAXsi.ATon. 

230 


THE  AGENT 

door,  and  kept  watching  and  glancing  round, 
every  now  and  tlien,  making  way  tor  tlie  alert 
valet.  I  managed  to  catch  a  glimpse,  past  his 
hroad  shoulders,  of  the  agent's  wife  silently 
thrashing  some  other  woman  in  the  anteroom. 
All  at  once,  a  peasant-cart  rattled  up  and  halted 
in  front  of  the  porch :  the  agent  entered. 

This  "  statesman,"  acording  to  Arkady  Pav- 
litch's  words,  w^as  short  of  stature,  broad-shoul- 
dered, grey-haired,  and  thick-set,  with  a  red  nose, 
small  blue  eyes,  and  a  beard  in  the  shape  of  a  fan. 
We  may  remark,  by  the  way,  that  ever  since  Rus- 
sia  has  stood,  there  has  never  been  an  instance  in 
it  of  a  man  who  has  grown  corpulent  and  waxed 
wealthy,  without  a  wide-spreading  beard;  a  man 
may  have  worn  a  thin,  wedge-shaped  beard  all  his 
life  long, — and  suddenly,  lo  and  behold,  it 
has  encircled  his  face  like  a  halo, — and  where 
does  the  hair  come  from!  The  agent  must  have 
been  carousing  in  PerofF:  his  face  Avas  consid- 
erably bloated,  and  he  exhaled  an  odom*  of 
liquor. 

"  Aldi,  you,  our  fathers,  our  gracious  ones," — 
he  began  in  a  sing-song  tone,  and  with  so  much 
emotion  depicted  on  his  face,  that  it  seemed  as 
though  the  tears  were  on  the  point  of  gushing 
forth; — "  at  last,  you  have  done  us  the  favour  to 
come  to  us!  ...  .  Thy  hand,  dear  little  father, 
thy  dear  little  hand," — he  added,  protruding  his 
lips  in  advance. 

231 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTS.AIAX 

Arkady  Pavlitch  complied  with  liis  wish. — 
"  Well,  now  then,  hrother  Sofron,  how  are  thy 
affairs  thriving? " — he  asked,  in  a  caressing 
voice. 

"  Akh,  you,  our  fathers," — exclaimed  Sofron: 
"  but  how  could  they  go  badly,  those  affairs!  For 
you,  our  fathers,  our  benefactors,  you  have 
deigned  to  illuminate  our  wretched  little  village 
with  your  coming,  you  have  rendered  us  happy 
until  the  day  of  our  coffins.  Glorv  to  Thee, 
O  I^ord,  Arkady  Pavlitch,  glory  to  Thee,  O 
Lord!  Everything  is  thriving,  thanks  to  your 
mercy.  ..." 

Here  Sofron  stopped  short,  darted  a  glance  at 
his  master,  and,  as  though  again  carried  away  by 
a  trans2)ort  of  feeling  ( and  the  liquor  was  begin- 
ning to  assert  itself,  to  boot ) ,  he  again  besought 
the  privilege  of  kissing  his  hand,  and  w^ent  on 
worse  than  before. 

"  Akh,    you,    our    fathers,    our    benefactors 

and what    am    I    saying! 

By  God,  I  have  gone  perfectly  mad  with  joy. 
.  .  .  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  look,  and  cannot 
believe  my  eyes Akh,  you,  our  fa- 
thers! .  .  .  ." 

Arkady  Pavlitch  glanced  at  me,  laughed,  and 
said:  ''  N'est-ce  pas  que  c'est  touchant! " 

"  Yes,  dear  little  father,  Arkady  Pavlitch,"— 
went  on  the  indefatigable  agent: — "how  could 
you  do  such  a  thing!  you  afflict  me  to  the  last  de- 

232 


THE   ACCENT 

grce,  dear  little  father:  you  did  not  deign  to  no- 
tify me  of  your  eoniing.  iVnd  where  are  you  to 
spend  the  night?  For  the  dirt,  the  ruhhish 
here " 

"  Never  mind,  Sofron,  never  mind," — replied 
Arkady  Pavlitch,  with  a  smile: — "  it 's  very  nice 
here." 

"  Yes,  but  you,  our  fathers, — for  whom  is  it 
nice  ?  for  the  likes  of  us  peasants  't  is  well  enough ; 
but  you  ....  akh,  vou,  mv  fathers,  benefactors, 
akh,  you,  my  fathers!  .  .  .  Forgive  me,  I  'm  a 
fool,  I  '^'e  lost  my  wits,  by  God,  I  've  gone  utterly 
crazy." 

In  the  meantime,  supper  was  served; — Arkady 
Pavlitch  began  to  eat.  The  old  man  drove  his 
son  away, — "  Thou  wilt  make  the  air  close,"  said 
he. 

"  Well,  old  man,  and  hast  thou  settled  the 
boundaries?" — asked  i\Ir.  Pyenotchkin,  who, 
evidently,  was  desirous  of  imitating  the  peasant 
style  of  sj^eech,  and  winked  at  me." 

"We  have,  dear  little  father:  all  by  thy  bounty. 
We  signed  the  affidavit  day  before  yesterday. 
The  KhlynofF  folks  were  inclined  to  resist,  at  first 
.  .  .  and  they  really  did  kick  up  a  row,  father. 
They  demanded  ....  they  demanded  .... 
God  only  knows  what  it  was  they  demanded ;  but 
they  are  a  foolish  lot,  dear  little  father,  a  stupid 
set  of  folks.     But  we,  dear  little  father,  by  thy 

^  He  said  slarind,  instead  of  star'ik,  for  "  old  man."— Translator. 

233 


MEMUIKS   OF   A   SPORTS.MAN 

mercy,  showed  our  gratitude  '  to  Mikolai  ]\Iiko- 
laiteh,  the  iniddleniau;  we  satisfied  him;  we  acted 
entirely  acconhng  to  thy  conmiaud,  dear  httle 
father;  as  tliou  wert  pleased  to  command,  so  we 
acted,  and  everything  was  done  with  the  know- 
ledge of  Yegor  Dmitritch." 

"  Yegor  reported  to  me," — remarked  Arkady 
Pavlitch,  })ompously. 

"  Of  course,  dear  little  father,  Yegor  Dmi- 
tritch did  so,  of  course." 

"  Well,  and  1  suppose  you  are  satisfied 
nowf 

This  was  all  that  Sofron  was  waiting  for. — 
"  Akh,  you,  our  fathers,  our  henefactors!  " — he 
began  to  whine  again.  ..."  Have  mercy  on 
me!  ....  for  don't  we  pray  to  the  Lord  God, 
day  and  night,  on  behalf  of  you,  our  fathers.  .  .  . 
There  is  n't  much  land,  of  course " 

Pyenotchkin  interrupted  him. — "  Well,  all 
right,  all  right,  Sofron;  I  know  thou  servest  me 
zealously.  .  .  .  Well,  and  how  about  the 
threshing?  " 

Sofron  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  you,  our  fathers,  the  threshing  is  n't 
very  good.  And  here  now,  dear  little  father,  Ar- 
kady Pavlitcli,  allow  me  to  announce  to  you  what 
sort  of  a  little  business  has  come  up."  (Here  he 
came  close  up  to  JNIr.  Pyenotclikin,  throwing  his 
hands   apart,   bent   down,   and   screwed   up   one 

'  That    is — bribed. — Translator. 

234 


TTTE    AGENT 

eye.)  "  We  have  found  a  dead  b(x]y  on  our 
land." 

"  How  did  that  come  about?  " 

"  WHiy,  I  myself  can't  comprehend  it,  dear  lit- 
tle father,  you,  our  fathers, — evidently,  the  devil 
made  the  mess,  set  the  snare.  And,  luckily,  it 
turned  out  to  be  near  another  man's  boundary- 
line;  only,  what  's  the  use  of  concealing  tiie  sin? 
'T  was  on  our  land.  I  immediately  gave  orders 
to  have  it  dragged  on  to  the  other  man's  strip  of 
land,^  while  it  was  possible,  and  I  set  a  guard 
over  it,  and  gave  him  command:  'Hold  thy 
tongue! '  says  I.  And  I  exj)lained  it  to  the  com- 
missary of  police,  by  way  of  precaution.  '  This 
was  the  way  of  it,'  says  I ;  and  I  treated  him  to 
tea,  and  gratitude.  .  .  .  Now,  what  do  you  think 
of  it,  dear  little  father?  You  see,  it  has  been  left 
on  the  necks  of  others;  for  one  has  to  pay  two 
hundred  rubles  for  a  dead  body, — as  surely  as 
one  has  to  pay  for  a  penny  roll." 

INIr.  Pyenotchkin  laughed  a  great  deal  at  his 
agent's  clever  ruse,  and  said  to  me  several  times, 
nodding  his  head  in  his  direction:  "Quel  gaillard, 
eh?" 

In  the  meantime,  it  had  grown  completely  dark 
out  of  doors;  Arkady  Pa\'litch  ordered  the  table 
to  be  cleared,  and  hay  to  be  brought.     The  valet 

'  Endless  invcstisrations  by  the  police,  and  complications,  ensue 
from    the    finding   of    a    dead    body.      The    jierson    wlio    owns    the 
land   is  compelled  to  explain  how  it  came  there,  and  who  mur 
dercd  the  victim. — Translator. 

23o 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

spread  out  sheets  for  us,  and  laid  out  pillows ;  we 
lay  down.  Sofrcui  went  to  his  own  (quarters,  after 
receiving  his  orders  for  the  following  day.  Ar- 
kady Piivlitch,  wliile  getting  to  sleep,  talked  a 
little  more  ahout  the  capital  qualities  of  the  Rus- 
sian peasant,  and  then  immediately  observed  to 
me  that,  since  Sofron  had  been  in  charge,  the 
Shipilovka  serfs  had  never  been  a  penny  in  ar- 
rears  The    watclmian    tapped    on   his 

board;'  the  ])aby,  who,  evidently,  had  not  yet 
succeeded  in  becoming  thoroughly  permeated 
with  a  sense  of  dutiful  self-sacrifice,  set  up  a  yell 
somewhere  in  the  cottage,   .  .  AVe  fell  asleep. 

We  rose  quite  early  on  the  following  morning. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  setting  off  for  Ryabovo,  but 
Arkady  Pavlitch  wished  to  show  me  his  estate, 
and  begged  me  to  remain.  I  was  not  averse  to 
convincing  myself,  by  actual  observation,  as  to 
the  capital  qualities  of  the  statesman  Sofron. 
The  agent  presented  himself.  He  wore  a  blue 
long-coat,  girt  with  a  red  belt.  He  talked  much 
less  than  on  tlie  preceding  evening,  gazed  vigi- 
lantly and  intently  in  his  master's  eyes,  replied 
fluently  and  in  business-like  fashion.  We  went 
with  him  to  tlie  thresliing-floor.  Sofron's  son, 
the  seven-foot  elder,  ])y  all  the  tokens  a  very 
stupid  fellow,  also  followed  us,  and  the  village 
scribe,    Fedosyeitch,    a    former    soldier,    with    a 

^  To  prove  that  he  was  alert;  as  with  the  modern  watchman's  clock- 
reeord.  Sometimes  the  "boards"  were  sheets  of  iron.  Some  such 
can  still  l)e  seen  beaten  into  holes  in  monasteries. — Tkansi^atoe. 

230 


THE  A(;kxt 

huge  moustache  aud  an  extremely  strange  ex- 
pression of  couutenauee,  jonied  us:  it  seemed 
as  though  he  must  have  beheld  something  re- 
markable \'ery  long  ago,  and  had  never  recov- 
ered himself  from  the  sight  since.  We  inspected 
the  threshing-fioor,  the  barns,  tiie  grain-ricks,  the 
sheds,  the  windmill,  the  cattle-vard,  the  aarden- 
stuff",  the  hemp-plots;  everything  really  was  in 
ca])ital  order:  the  dejected  faces  of  the  serfs  alone 
caused  me  some  perplexity.  In  addition  to  the 
useful,  Sofron  looked  after  the  agreeable:  he  had 
planted  willows  along  all  the  ditches ;  he  had  laid 
out  paths  and  strewn  them  with  sand  between  the 
ricks  on  the  threshing-floor;  he  had  constructed 
a  weather-vane  on  the  windmill,  in  the  shape  of 
a  bear  with  gaping  jaws,  and  a  red  tongue;  he 
had  fastened  something  in  the  nature  of  a  Greek 
pediment  to  the  brick  cattle-shed,  and  had  written 
in  white-lead,  under  the  pediment:  "  Bilt  in  the 
villige  of  Shipilofke  in  onetousan  eigh  Ilun- 
dert  farty.  This  catle  shet."— Arkady  Pavlitch 
melted  completely,  took  to  setting  forth  to  me, 
in  the  French  language,  the  advantages  of  the 
quit-rent  system, — remarking,  however,  in  that 
connection,  that  husbandry-service  was  more 
profitable  for  the  peasants, — and  any  quantity  of 
other  things!  He  began  to  give  the  agent  advice, 
how  to  plant  potatoes,  how  to  prepare  the  fodder 
for  the  cattle,  and  so  forth.  Sofron  listened  to 
his  master's  remarks  with  attention,  replying  now 

237 


.MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSxMAN 

and  then;  but  he  no  longer  addressed  Arkady 
I'livlitch  either  as  "  father,"  or  as  "  benefactor," 
and  kept  insisting  that  they  had  very  httle  hind, 
that  it  would  n't  be  amiss  to  buy  some  more. 
"  Well  then,  buy  some," — said  Arkady  Pavlitch: 
— "  I  'm  not  ayerse  to  having  it  bought  in  my 
name.  ' — To  these  words,  Sofron  made  no  reply, 
but  merely  stroked  his  beard. — "  But  it  would  n't 
be  a  bad  idea  to  go  to  the  forest  now," — remarked 
jNIr.  Pyenotchkin.  Saddle-horses  were  immedi- 
ately  brought  for  us ;  we  rode  to  the  forest,  or,  as 
they  say  in  our  parts,  "  the  forbidden  ground."  ^ 
In  this  "  forbidden  spot  "  we  found  an  immense 
amount  of  thicket  and  game,  for  which  Arkady 
Pavlitch  praised  Sofron,  and  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder.  Mr.  Pyenotchkin,  in  the  matter  of  for- 
estry, adhered  to  Russian  ideas,  and  there,  on  the 
spot,  he  nariated  to  me  what,  according  to  his  as- 
sertion, was  a  very  amusing  incident, — how  a 
landed  proprietor,  given  to  jesting,  had  taught 
his  forester  a  lesson,  by  plucking  out  about  one- 
half  of  his  beard,  to  demonstrate  that  the  forest 
does  not  grow  any  thicker  for  being  thinned  out, 
....  However,  in  other  respects,  neither  Sofron 
nor  Arkady  Pavlitch  avoided  innovations.  On 
our  return  to  the  \  illage,  the  agent  led  us  to  in- 

'  The  peasants  Iiave  no  riglit  to  wood  from  the  forests,  and  no 
forest-hmd  was  allotted  to  them  after  the  Kmancijiation.  To  pre- 
vent their  stealing  timber  (as  in  "The  Wolf,"  which  follows), 
i)road,  deej)  ditches  are  often  dug  across  the  forest  roads  by  the 
T)roi)riet(jrs. — Translator. 

238 


THE  a(;ent 

spect  a  winnowing-machiiic,  whicli  had  recently 
been  imported  from  ^loseow.  The  vvinnowiiig- 
machine  really  did  work  well,  but  if  Sofron  had 
known  what  an  unpleasant  ex])erience  was  await- 
ing him  and  his  master  during  this  final  stroll, 
he  would,  in  all  probability,  have  remained  at 
home  with  us. 

This  is  what  happened.  As  we  emerged  from 
the  shed,  we  beheld  the  following  spectacle.  A 
few  paces  from  the  door,  beside  a  filthy  puddle, 
in  which  three  ducks  were  carelessly  splashing, 
stood  two  serfs:  one  was  an  old  man  of  sixty 
years,  the  other  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  both 
in  home-made,  patched  shirts,  barefooted,  and 
girt  with  ropes.  The  scribe,  Fedosyeitch,  was 
bustling  zealously  about  them,  and  would,  proba- 
bly, have  succeeded  in  prevailing  upon  them  to 
withdraw,  if  we  had  tarried  a  little  longer  in  the 
shed;  but,  on  catching  sight  of  us,  he  drew  him- 
self up  in  military  fashion,  fingers  on  his  trous- 
ers-seams, and  stood  stock-still  on  the  spot.  The 
elder  was  standing  there  also,  with  mouth  agape, 
and  suspended  in  the  act  of  striking  fists.  Ar- 
kady Pavlitch  frowned,  bit  his  lips,  and  stepped 
up  to  the  peasants.  Both  bowed  to  his  feet,  in 
silence. 

"  What  do  you  want?  What  are  you  petition- 
ing about?" — he  asked,  in  a  stern  voice,  and 
somewhat  through  his  nose.  (The  peasants 
glanced  at  each  other  and  uttered  never  a  word, 

230 


ME^IOIRS   OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

but  merely  screwed  up  their  eyes,  as  though 
screening  them  from  the  sun,  and  began  to 
breathe  faster.) 

"  Come  now,  what  is  it  ?  " — went  on  Arkady 
Pavlitch,  and  immediately  turned  to  Sofron: — 
"  from  wliat  family  are  they?  ' 

"  From  the  Tol)olyeefF  family," — replied  the 
agent,  slowly. 

"  Come  now,  what  do  you  want? " — said 
Mr.  Pyenotchkin  again: — "  Haye  n't  you  any 
tongues,  pray?  Tell  me,  thou,  what  dost  thou 
want  ?  " — he  added,  nodding  his  head  at  the  old 
man. — "  And  don't  be  afraid,  thou  fool." 

The  old  man  stretched  out  his  dark-brown, 
wrinkled  neck,  opened  awr}''  his  lips,  w^hich  had 
turned  blue,  ejaculated  in  a  hoarse  yoice:  "  Inter- 
cede, sir!  "  and  again  banged  his  brow  against 
the  ground.  The  young  serf  also  bowed  low. 
Arkady  Paylitch  gazed  pompously  at  the  napes 
of  their  necks,  tossed  back  his  head,  and  straddled 
his  legs  somew^hat. — "  AVhat  's  the  matter? 
Against  whom  are  you  complaining?  " 

"  Haye    mercy,    sir!     Giye    us    a    chance    to 

breathe We   are   tcjrtured   to   death." 

(The  old  man  spoke  with  difficult^^) 

"  Who  has  tortured  thee?  " 

"  Why,  Sofron  Yakoylevitch,  dear  little  fa- 
ther." 

Arkady  Paylitch  said  notliing  for  a  while. 

"What's  thy  name?" 

240 


THE  ACCENT 

"  Antip,  dear  little  father." 

"And  who  is  this  r' 

"  My  son,  dear  little  father." 

Arkady  Pavlitch  again  remained  silent  for  a 
while,  and  twitched  his  moustache. 

"  Well,  and  how  does  he  torture  thee?  " — he 
began  again,  glancing  at  the  old  man  through 
his  moustache. 

"  Dear  little  father,  he  has  utterly  ruined  us. 
He  has  given  tw^o  of  my  sons  as  recruits  out  of 
their  turn,  dear  little  father,  and  now  he  is  taking 
away  the  third  one.  Yesterday,  dear  little  father, 
he  took  my  last  poor  cow  from  my  yard,  and 
thrashed  my  wife — that 's  his  lordship  yonder." 
(He  pointed  at  the  elder.) 

"  H'm," — ^ejaculated  Arkady  Pavlitch. 

"  Do  not  let  him  utterly  ruin  me,  mv  l)enefac- 
tor!" 

Mr.  Pyenotchkin  frowned. — "  What 's  the 
meaning  of  this?  " — he  asked  the  agent  in  an  un- 
dertone and  with  a  look  of  displeasure. 

"  He  's  a  drunkard,  sir/' — replied  the  agent, 
for  the  first  time  emplojdng  the  "sir": — "he 
won't  work.  He  's  always  in  arrears,  these  last 
five  years,  sir." 

"  Sofron  Yakovlevitch  has  paid  up  my  arrears 
for  me,  dear  little  father," — went  on  the  old 
man: — "this  is  the  fifth  year  that  he  has  paid, 
and  how  has  he  paid — he  has  made  me  his  serf, 
dear  little  father,  and  so " 

241 


MEMOIRS   OF   xV   SPORTSMAN 

"  Aiul  how  didst  thou  come  to  be  in  arrears?  " 
asked  Mr.  Pyenotclikin,  iiieiuicingly.  (The  old 
man  hung  his  head.) — "Thou  art  fond  of  get- 
ting drunk,  I  think, — of  roaming  around  among 
the  dram-sliops ?  "  (The  old  man  tried  to  open 
his  mouth.) 

"  1  know  vou," — went  on  Arkady  Pavliteh. 
with  vehemence: — "  your  business  is  drinking  and 
lying  on  the  oven;  and  a  good  peasant  must  be 
responsible  for  you.  ' 

"  And  he  's  an  insolent  beast,  too,"  the  agent 
interjected  into  the  gentleman's  speech. 

"  Well,  that  one  understands  as  a  matter  of 
course.  That  is  always  the  case:  I  have  observed 
it  more  than  once.  He  leads  a  dissolute  life  for 
a  whole  year,  is  insolent,  and  now  flings  himself 
at  my  feet." 

"  Dear  little  father,  Arkady  Pavhtch," — said 
the  old  man  in  despair: — "have  mercy,  defend 
us,- — I  'm  not  insolent!  I  speak  as  I  would  before 
the  Lord  God,  't  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  So- 
fron  Yakovlevitch  has  taken  a  dislike  to  me, — as 
for  the  reason  why  he  has  taken  the  dislike,  the 
Lord  be  his  judge !  He  is  ruining  me  utterly,  dear 
little  father.  .  ,  .  This  is  my  last  son,  here  .... 

and  you  see "  (A  tear  glittered  in  the  old 

man's  yellow,   wrinkled   eyes.) — "  Have  mercy, 
sir,  defend  us." 

"  Yes,  and  not  us  alone — "  began  the  young 
serf 

All  at  once,  Arkady  l^jivlitch  flared  up: 

242 


TllK  AGENT 

"  And  who  asked  tlRv.  hcy^  wlicn  thou  art  not 
asked,  hokl  thy  tongue.  .  .  .  What 's  the  mean- 
ing of  this?   Hold  thy  tongue,  I  tell  thee!    Hold 

tliy  tongue! Akh,  my  God!  why,  this  is 

simply  mutiny!  No,  brother,  I  wouldn't  advise 
anv   one   to   mutiny   on   mv   estate.  .  .  I    have 

"  (Arkady  Pavliteh  began  to  stride  baek 

and  forth,  then,  probably,  recalled  to  himself  my 
])resence,  turned  away,  and  put  his  hands  in  his 

pockets.) "  Je  voils  vans  demande  hien 

pardon,  mon  clier" — he  said,  with  a  constrained 
smile,  significantly  lowering  his  voice. — "  C'est 
Jc  mauvais  cote  de  la  7nedaille.  .  .  .  Come,  very 
good,  very  good," — he  went  on,  ^vithout  looking 
at  the  peasant  men: — "  I  will  give  orders  .  .  . 
good,  go  your  way." — (The  peasants  did  not 
i-ise.)  — "  Well,  have  n't  I  told  you?  ...  it 's  all 
right.    Go  aw^ay, — I  '11  give  orders,  I  tell  you." 

Arkadv  Pavliteh  turned  his  back  on  them.^ — 
"  Eternal  dissatisfaction," — he  said  betw^een  his 
teeth,  and  walked  off  homeward  with  huge 
strides.  Sofron  followed  him.  The  scribe's 
eyes  bulged  out,  as  thougli  lie  were  on  the  point 
of  making  a  long  leap  in  some  direction.  Tlie 
elder  scared  the  ducks  out  of  the  puddle.  The 
petitioners  stood  a  while  longer  on  the  same  spot, 
stared  at  each  other,  and  trudged  away  whence 
they  came. 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  I  >vas  in  Kyabovo, 
and,  in  company  with  Anpadist,  a  peasant  of 
my  acquaintance,  was  preparing  to  set  off  hunt- 

243 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

ing.  Pyenotc'hkiii  had  sulked  at  Sofron  up  to 
the  very  monieiit  of  my  departure.  I  hegan  to 
talk  with  ^Vupadist  ahout  the  Slii])il6vka  serfs, 
about  iSIr.  Pyenotehkin ;  I  asked  him,  whether  he 
knew  the  agent  there. 

"  Sofron  Yakovlevitch,  you  mean?  .... 
Oh,  dont  1  just!  " 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  man  is  he?  " 

"  He  's  a  dog,  and  not  a  man:  you  won't  find 
sueh  another  dog  this  side  of  Kursk." 

"  But  what  dost  thou  mean?  " 

"  Why,  Shipilovka  merely  stands  in  the  name 
of  ...  .  how  do  you  call  him?  Pyenkin;  he 
does  n't  own  it,  you  see:  Sofron  owns  it." 

"  You  don't  say  so?  " 

"  He  runs  it  as  his  own  property.  The  peas- 
ants are  up  to  their  ears  in  debt  to  him:  they 
drudge  for  him  like  hired  men:  he  sends  one  off 
with  the  carrier's  train,  another  somewhere  else 
he  harries  them  altogether." 

"  They  have  not  much  land,  it  seems?  " 

"  Xot  much?  He  hires  eighty  desvatinas  from 
the  Khli'novo  folks  alone,  and  fj-om  us,  one 
hundred  and  twenty;  there's  a  whole  hundred 
and  fifty  desyatinas  there  besides  for  you.  And 
land  is  not  the  only  thing  he  trades  in:  he  trades 
in  horses,  and  cattle,  and  tar,  and  butter,  and 
flax,  and  a  lot  of  things  besides.  .  .  .  He 's 
clever,  awfully  clever,  and  rich  too,  the  beast! 
But  this  is  the  bad  part  of  it — he  assaults  folks. 

244 


THE  AGENT 

He  's  a  wild  beast,  not  a  man ; — -I  've  said  it:  he  's 
a  dog, a  dirty  dog, that 's  what  lie  is — a  dirty  dog." 

"  But  vvliy  don't  the  people  eoniplain  of  him?  " 

"  Eksta!  What  does  the  master  eare!  What  is 
it  to  him,  so  long  as  the  money  is  not  in  arrears? 
Yes,  just  try  it," — he  added,  after  a  brief  pause: 
— "  complain.  No,  he  '11  let  thee  .  .  .  well,  just 
try  it  .  .  .  No,  he  '11  give  you  to  under- 
stand ..."  I  mentioned  Antip,  and  related 
what  I  had  seen. 

"Well," — said  Anpadist: — "now  he'll  de- 
vour him  alive ;  he  '11  devour  that  man  utterly. 
Now  the  elder  will  beat  him.  The  poor,  un- 
happy fellow,  just  think  of  it!  And  why  is 
he  suffering?  .  .  .  He  picked  a  quarrel  with 
him  at  the  village-council, — with  that  agent, — 
things  had  got  beyond  endurance,  you  see.  .  . 
A  great  matter,  forsooth!  So  then  he  began 
to  peck  at  him, — at  Antip,  I  mean.  Now  he  '11 
make  an  end  of  him.  For  he  's  such  a  dirty  dog, 
a  hound, —  the  Lord  forgive  my  sin! — he  know-s 
whom  to  oppress.  The  old  men, — he  does  n't 
touch  those  that  are  richer, — and  with  larffe 
families,  the  bald-headed  devil, — but  now  he  '11 
let  himself  loose!  You  see,  he  gave  Antip's  sons 
for  recruits  out  of  their  turn, — the  cruel  rascal, 
the  dirty  dog, — may  the  Lord  forgive  my  great 
sin!" 

We  set  off  on  oiu-  hunt. 

Salzbukg  IX  Silesia,  July,  184.7. 

245 


XI 

THE  COUNTING-HOUSE 

It  happened  in  tlie  autumn.  I  liad  been  roving 
about  for  several  hours  over  the  fields,  with  my 
gun;  and,  in  all  probability,  would  not  have  re- 
turned before  the  evening  to  the  posting-station 
on  the  Kui'sk  highwav,  where  mv  troika  was 
^^•aiting  for  me,  had  not  the  extremely  fine  and 
cold,  drizzling  rain,  which  had  been  sticking  to 
me  ever  since  the  morning,  indefatigably  and 
pitilessly,  like  an  old  maid,  made  me,  at  last, 
seek  a  temporary  shelter,  at  least,  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity.  While  I  was  deliberating  in  which 
direction  to  go,  a  low-roofed  hut  suddenly  pre- 
sented itself  to  my  eyes,  beside  a  field  sown  with 
peas.  I  went  to  the  hut,  cast  a  glance  under  the 
straw  penthouse,  and  beheld  an  old  man  so  de- 
crepit, tliat  lie  immediately  reminded  me  of  that 
dying  goat  which  Robinson  Crusoe  found  in  one 
of  the  caves  of  his  island.  The  old  man  was 
squatting  on  his  heels,  puckering  up  his  purblind, 
tiny  eyes,  and  hurriedly  but  cautiously,  like  a 
hare  (the  poor  fellow  had  not  a  single  tooth), 
chewing  a  hard,  dry  pea,  incessantly  rolling  it 
from  side  to  side.  Pie  was  so  engrossed  in  his 
occu])ation,  that  he  did  not  notice  my  ajiproach. 

24G 


THE    COUNTIXCMIOrSK 

"Grandpa!    Hey  thci-e,  grandpa! "' — 1  said. 

He  ceased  chewing,  elevated  his  eyebrows  and, 
with  an  effort,  opened  his  eyes. 

"  What?  " — he  mumbled  in  a  lioarse  voice. 

"  Where  is  there  a  village  near  at  hand?  " — I 
asked. 

The  old  man  set  to  chewing  again.  He  liad 
not  lieard  me.  I  repeated  my  question  more 
loudly  than  before. 

"A  village?  ....  but  what  dost  thou 
want?  " 

"  Why,  to  shelter  myself  from  this  rain." 

"What?" 

"  To  shelter  myself  from  the  rain." 

"  Yes!  "  (He  scratched  his  sunburned  neck.) 
"  Well,  thou  must  go,  seest  thou," — he  began 
suddenly,  flourishing  his  hands  loosely: — "  yo  .  .  . 
yonder,  right  past  the  little  wood,  thou  must  go, 
— yonder,  as  thou  goest — there  '11  be  a  road ;  do 
thou  let  it — the  road,  that  is — alone,  and  keep  on 
always  to  the  right,  keep  right  on,  keep  right 

on,  keep  right  on Well,  and  then  thou 

wilt    come    to    Ananyevo.      Or    thou    canst    go 
througii  to  Sitovko." 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  understood  the  old 
man.  His  moustache  interfered  with  him,  and 
his  tongue  obeyed  him  badly. 

"  But  whence  comest  thou?  " — I  asked  him. 

"What?" 

"Whence  art  thou?" 

247 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"  From  Aiuinyc'vo." 

"  What  art  thou  doing  here?" 

"What?" 

"  What  art  thou  doing  here?  " 

"  I  'm  the  watchman." 

"  But  what  art  thou  guarding?  " 

"  AVhy,  the  peas." 

I  could  not  lielp  bursting  into  a  laugh. 

"Why,  good  gracious, — how  old  art  thou?" 

"  God  knows." 

"Thy  sight  is  bad,  is  n't  it?" 

"  Yes.    There  are  times  when  I  hear  nothing." 

"  Then,  how  canst  thou  act  as  watchman, 
pray?" 

"  Mv  elders  know." 

"  Thy  elders,"  I  thought,  and  surveyed  the 
poor  old  man,  not  Mithout  compassion.  He  fum- 
bled about  his  person,  got  a  crust  of  stale  bread 
from  his  bosom,  and  began  to  suck  at  it,  like  a 
child,  drawing  in  with  an  effort  his  cheeks,  which 
were  sunken  enough  ^vithout  that. 

I  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the  wood, 
turned  to  the  right,  kept  on  and  on,  as  the  old 
man  had  advised  me,  and  at  last  reached  a  large 
village  with  a  stone  church  in  the  new  style,  that 
is  to  say,  with  columns,  and  a  spacious  manor- 
house,  also  with  columns.  Already  from  afar, 
athwart  the  close  network  of  the  rain,  I  had  ob- 
served a  cottage  with  a  board  roof,  and  two  chim- 
neys taller  than  the  others, — in  all  probability, 

248 


TTTE    COTTXTTNG-TIOUSE 

the  dwelling  of  the  elder,  -  and  thither  1  direeted 
my  steps,  in  the  hope  of  finding  in  his  house  a 
samovar,  tea,  sugar,  and  cream  which  was  not 
completely  sour.  Accompanied  by  my  thor- 
oughly benumbed  dog,  1  ascended  the  porch,  en- 
tered the  anteroom,  and  opened  the  door;  but,  in- 
stead of  the  customary  appliances  of  a  cottage,  I 
beheld  several  tables  loaded  down  with  papers, 
two  red  cupboards  spattered  with  ink,  a  leaden 
sand-box  weighing  about  a  pud,  very  long  pens, 
and  so  forth.  At  one  of  the  tables  sat  a  young 
fellow  of  twenty  years,  with  a  puiFy  and  sickly 
face,  tiny  little  ej^es,  a  greasy  forehead,  and  in- 
terminable curls  on  his  temples.  He  was  dressed, 
as  was  proper,  in  a  grey  nankeen  kaftan  shiny 
on  the  collar  and  the  stomach. 

"  What  do  you  want?  " — he  asked  me,  throw- 
ing his  head  upward,  like  a  horse  which  has  not 
been  expecting  to  be  seized  by  the  muzzle. 

"  Does  the  manager  live  here or " 

"  This  is  the  squire's  principal  counting- 
house," — he  interrupted  me. — "  I  'm  the  clerk  on 
duty.  .  .  .  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  n't 
see  the  sign?  That 's  what  the  sign  is  nailed  up 
for." 

"  And  where  can  I  dry  myself?  Has  any  one 
in  the  village  a  samovar?  " 

"Why  shouldn't  there  be  a  samovar?" — re- 
torted the  young  fellow  in  the  grey  kaftan,  pom- 
pously:   "  Go  to  Father  Timofei,  or  to  the  cot- 

249 


.aie:moihs  of  a  sportsman 

tage  of  the  hovise-serfs,  or  to  Xazar  Tanisitcli,  or 
to  Agrafena  the  i)()iiltrv-woiiian." 

"  Who  's  that  tlioii  art  talking  to,  tliou  doH '. 
thou  wilt  not  let  one  sleep,  dolt!" — rang  out  a 
voice  from  the  adjoining  room. 

"  A\'^hy,  here  \s  some  gentleman  or  other  h : : 
come  in,  and  is  asking  where  he  can  dry  himself.  " 

"  AVhat  gentleman  is  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     He  has  a  dog  and  a  gun." 

A  hed  creaked  in  the  adjoining  room.  The 
door  opened,  and  there  entered  a  man  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  low  of  stature,  squat,  with  a  bull- 
neck,  protruding  eyes,  remarkably  round  cheeks, 
and  a  polish  all  over  his  face. 

"What  do  you  want?" — he  asked  me. 

"  To  dr}-^  myself." 

"  This  is  not  the  place  for  that." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  this  was  a  counting- 
house;  moreover,  I  am  ready  to  pay " 

"  You  miglit  do  it  here," — returned  the  fat 
man: — "please  to  come  this  way."  (He  con- 
ducted me  into  another  room,  only  not  the  one 
from  which  he  had  emerged.) — "  Shall  you  be 
comfortable  here?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  cannot  I  get  some  tea  M'ith 
cream  f 

"  Certainly,  directly.  In  the  meantime,  please 
to  undress  voiu'self  and  rest,  and  the  tea  shall  be 
readv  immediately." 

"  Whose  estate  is  this?  " 

250 


THK    COnXTING-HOUSE 

"  The  estate  of  IMiiie.  l^osiiyakoft*,  Klriia  \i- 
kolcievna." 

He  left  the  room.  1  looked  about  me:  along 
the  partition  whieh  separated  my  room  from  the 
eounting-lionse  stood  a  huge,  leather-covered 
divan;  two  chairs,  also  upholstered  in  leather, 
with  extremely  high  backs,  reared  themselves  in 
the  air,  one  on  each  side  of  the  single  window, 
which  opened  on  the  street.  On  the  walls,  hung 
with  dark-green  paper  with  pink  patterns,  were 
three  enormous  pictures,  painted  in  oils.  One 
depicted  a  setter  liound  with  a  blue  collar  and 
the  inscription:  "This  is  my  delight;"  at  the 
dog's  feet  flowed  a  river,  and  on  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  river,  beneath  a  pine-tree,  sat  a  hare 
of  extravagant  size,  with  ears  pricked  up.  In 
the  other  picture,  two  old  men  were  eating  water- 
melon: beyond  the  watermelon,  in  the  distance, 
a  Greek  portico  was  visible  bearing  the  in- 
scription: "  The  Temple  of  Contentment."  The 
third  picture  presented  a  half-naked  woman 
in  a  reclining  attitude,  en  raccoiirci,  with  red 
knees  and  very  thick  heels.  ^ly  dog,  without 
the  slightest  delay,  with  superhuman  efi'ort, 
crawled  under  the  divan,  and  apparently  found 
a  great  deal  of  dust  there,  for  he  began  to  sneeze 
frightfully.  I  walked  to  the  window.  Across 
the  street,  from  the  manor-house  to  the  countin"'- 
house  of  the  estate,  in  a  diagonal  line,  lay  boards: 
a  very  useful   precaution,   because   everywhere 

251 


MEMOIRS    OF    A    SrOKTS.MAX 

around,  tluuiks  to  our  ])lack  soil,  and  to  tlie 
prolonged  rain,  the  mud  was  frightful.  Round 
ahout  the  scju ire's  residence,  whieli  stood  with  its 
hack  to  the  street,  that  was  going  on  which  usu- 
ally does  go  on  around  the  manors  of  the  gentry: 
maids  in  faded  cotton  frocks  were  whisking  to 
and  fro;  house-serfs  were  strolling  through  the 
mud,  halting  and  meditatively  scratching  their 
spines,  the  nn*al  policeman's  horse,  whicli  was 
tied,  was  idly  swishing  its  tail,  and,  with  its  muz- 
zle tossed  aloft,  was  nihhling  the  fence;  hens 
were  cackling;  consumptive  turkeys  were  inces- 
santly calling  to  one  another.  On  the  porch  of  a 
dark  and  rotting  building,  ])rohably  the  bath- 
house, sat  a  sturdy  young  fellow  with  a  guitar, 
singing,  not  without  spirit,  the  familiar  ballad: 

"  E — I  '11  to  the  desert  hie  myself  away 
From  these  most  lovely  scenes  " — 

and  so  forth.^ 

The  fat  man  entered  my  room. 

"  Here,  they  're  bringing  your  tea," — he  said 
to  me,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

The  young  fellow  in  the  grey  kaftan,  the  clerk 
on  duty,  set  out  on  an  old  1 'ombre  table  the  samo- 
var,  the  tea-pot,  a  glass  with  a  cracked  saucer,  a 
pot  of  cream,  and  a  bundle  of  Rolkhoff  ring- 
rolls  as  hard  as  stone.     The  fat  man  withdrew. 

*  The  man's  atrocious  j)roiiiiiici;iti()n  cannot   he  rejiroduced  in 
English. — 'J'liANsi.ATou. 

252 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE 

"  Who  is  that," — I  asked  the  clerk  on  duty: — 
"  the  manager? " 

"  Oil,  no,  sir;  he  used  to  be  the  head  cashier, 
hut  now  lie  has  been  promoted  to  be  the  head 
office-clerk." 

"  But  have  you  no  manager  here?  " 

"  No,  sir,  none.  There  's  a  peasant  overseer, 
Mikhailo  Vikuloff,  but  there  's  no  manager." 

"  So  there  's  an  agent?  " 

"  Certainly,  there  is:  a  German,  Lindamandol, 
Karlo  Karlitch ; — only  he  does  n't  manage  af- 
fairs." 

"  But  who  does  the  managing?  " 

"  The  mistress  herself." 

"  You  don't  say  so! — And  have  you  a  large 
force  in  the  office?  " 

The  young  fellow  reflected. 
Six  men. 

"  Who  are  they?  " — I  asked. 

"Why,  these: — first,  there's  Vasily  Niko- 
laevitch,  the  head  cashier;  and  next,  Piotr 
the  clerk;  Piotr's  brother  Ivan,  a  clerk;  an- 
other clerk,  Ivan ;  Koskenkin  ^  Narkizoff ,  also  a 
clerk ;  and  myself ; — and  you  could  n't  reckon 
up  all." 

"  Your  mistress  has  a  great  many  menials,  I 
suppose? " 

"  No,  not  so  very  many.  .  .  ." 

"  But  how  many?  " 

'  Konstantfn. — Translator. 

253 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"  Thev  sum  lu)  \o  about  ii  liundred  and  fifty 
persons,  probably/' 

AVe  both  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  and  dost  thou  write  well?  " — I  began 
again. 

The  young  fellow  grinned  to  the  full  capacity 
of  his  mouth,  nodded  his  head,  went  into  the 
office,  and  brought  back  a  written  sheet  of  paper. 

"  This  is  my  writing,"— said  he,  without  ceas- 
ing to  grin. 

I  looked  at  it:  on  a  quarter-sheet  of  greyish 
paper,  the  following  was  written  in  a  large, 
handsome  script: 

"ORDINANCE" 

"From  the  head  home  office  of  the  Andnyevo 
estate,  to  the  Overseer  Mikhailo  VikiUoff ,  No. 
209r 

"  Thou  art  ordered,  immediately  on  receipt  of 
this,  to  institute  an  inquiry:  who  it  was  that,  dur- 
ing the  past  night,  in  a  state  of  intoxication  and 
with  improper  songs,  walked  through  the  Eng- 
lish park,  and  waked  up  and  disturbed  the 
French  governess,  INIme.  Eugenie?  and  what  the 
watchman  was  about,  and  who  was  on  guard  in 
the  park  and  permitted  such  disorder?  Thou  art 
ordered  to  report  without  delay  to  the  office 
concerning  the  aforesaid,  in  full  detail. 


Head  clerlx,  Nikolai  Khvostoff. 
254 


5> 


THE    COrXTINO-HOUSE 

A  huge  seal,  bearing  a  coat  of  arms,  was  at- 
taclied  to  the  orchiianee,  with  the  inscription: 
"  Seal  of  the  head  office  of  the  Ananyevo  es- 
tate; "  and  below  was  the  signature:  "  To  be  exe- 
cuted  punctually:   Klkna   Losnyakoff." 

"  Did  the  mistress  herself  sign  that,  pray?  " — 
I  asked. 

"  Certainly,  sir,  she  herself:  she  always  signs 
herself.  Otherwise,  the  order  cannot  take 
effect." 

"  Well,  and  shall  vou  send  this  ordinance  to 
the  overseer?  " 

"  No,  sir.  He  will  come  himself  and  read  it. 
That  is  to  say,  it  will  be  read  to  him;  for  he  can't 
read  and  write."  (The  clerk  on  duty  lapsed  into 
silence  again.) 

"Well,    sir," — he    added,    smilingly: — "it's 
well  written,  isn't  it,  sir?" 
1  es. 

"  Of  course,  I  did  n't  comjwse  it.  Koskenkin 
is  a  master-hand  at  that." 

"  What? Dost  thou  mean  to  say  that 

with  you  the  orders  are  first  composed?  " 

"How  else,  sir?  They  cannot  be  written  out 
fairly  straight  off." 

"  And  how  much  of  a  salary  dost  thou  re- 
ceive? " — I  asked. 

"  Thirty-five  rubles  a  year,  and  five  rubles  for 
boots." 

"  And  art  thou  satisfied?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am. — Not  every  one  can  get  into 

25.5 


MEMOIRS    (3F    A    SPORTSMAN 

our  counting-lioiise.  (toiI  himself  ordered  me 
there,  to  tell  tlie  trutli:  my  uncle  serves  as 
hutler/' 

"And  art  thou  well  off?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  To  tell  the  truth," — he  went  on, 
with  a  sigh: — "  the  likes  of  us  are  better  off  with 
the  merchants.  Fellows  like  me  are  very  well 
off  with  the  merchants.  Xow,  for  instance,  yes- 
terday there  came  to  us  a  merchant  from  Ven- 
yovo, — so  his  workman  told  me.  .  .  .  They  're 
well  off,  there  s  no  denying  it, — well  off." 

"  But  do  the  merchants  give  bigger  wages?  " 

"God  forbid!  Why,  a  merchant  would  pitch 
you  out  of  doors  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  if  you 
were  to  ask  wages  from  him.  No,  you  must  live 
in  faith  and  in  fear  with  a  merchant.  He  gives 
you  food,  and  drink,  and  clothing,  and  every- 
thing. If  you  please  him, — he  '11  give  you  even 
more.  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  with  wages!  you 
don't  need  any  at  all.  .  .  .  And  the  merchant 
lives  simply  in  Russian  fashion,  in  our  own  fash- 
ion :  if  you  go  on  the  road  with  him,  he  drinks  tea, 
and  you  drink  tea ;  what  he  eats,  that  you  eat  also. 
A  merchant  ....  why,  there  's  no  comparison : 
a  merchant  is  not  the  same  as  a  well-born  master. 
A  merchant  is  n't  capricious ;  now,  if  he  gets  an- 
gry, he  '11  thrash  you,  and  that  's  the  end  of  it. 
lie  does  n't  nag  and  jeer.  .  .  .  Rut  with  the 
well-born  master, — woe  be  to  you!  Nothing 
suits  him :  this  is  not  right,  and  he  is  n't  satisfied 

256 


I 


THE   COUNTIXG-HOUSE 

witli  the  (jthcr.  If  you  give  him  a  ghiss  of  water 
or  food, — '  Akh,  the  water  stinks!  akh,  the  food 
stinks!'  Y^)u  carry  it  away,  and  stand  outside 
tlie  door  a  l)it,  and  carry  it  in  again: — 'Well, 
now,  that 's  good;  well,  now,  that  doesn't  stink.' 
And  the  lady  mistresses,  I  can  just  tell  you,  the 
lady  mistresses!  .  .  .  or,  take  the  young  la- 
dies!   " 

The  clerk  on  duty  briskly  left  the  room.  I  fin- 
ished my  glass  of  tea,  lay  down  on  the  divan,  and 
fell  asleep.    I  slept  two  hours. 

On  waking,  I  tried  to  rise,  but  indolence  over- 
powered me ;  I  closed  my  eyes,  but  did  not  get  to 
sleep  again.  A  low-voiced  conversation  was  in 
2>rogress  in  tlie  office,  on  the  other  side  of  the  par- 
tition.    1  involuntarily  began  to  listen. 

"  Yis,  sir,  yis,  sir,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch," — said 
one  voice: — "  vis,  sir.  That  cannot  be  taken  into 
account,  sir;  it  really  can't.  .  .  .  H  m!  "  (The 
speaker  coughed.) 

"  Pray  believe  me,  Gavrila  Antonitch," — re- 
turned the  fat  man's  voice: — "judge  for  your- 
self, whether  I  don't  know  the  course  of  affairs 
here." 

"  Who  else  should  know  it,  Nikolai  Eremye- 
itch: you  are  the  first  person  here,  sir,  one  may 
say.  Well,  and  how  is  it  to  be,  sir;  " — pursued 
the  voice  which  was  unfamiliar  to  me : — "  what 
shall  we  decide  on,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch? — per- 
mit me  to  inquire." 

257 


.MK.MOIKS   OF   A   SrORTSMA^ 

"  What  sliall  we  decide  on,  (Javrila  x\nt6niteli;' 
The  matter  depends  on  you,  so  to  s^Deak:  you 
don't  care  about  it,  apparently." 

"Good  oracious,  Xikohii  Kremyeitch:  wliat 
are  vou  savins'?  I'm  a  mercliant,  a  merchant; 
my  business  is  to  buy.  That 's  wliat  we  mer- 
chants stand  on,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch, — 1  may 
say." 

"  Eight  rubles," — said  the  fat  man,  pausing 
between  his  words. 

A  sigh  was  audible. 

"  Nikolai  Eremyeitch,  you  are  pleased  to  de- 
mand an  awful  lot." 

"  I  can't  do  otherwise,  Gavrila  Antonitch, — 
't  is  impossible, — I  speak  as  in  the  presence  of  the 
Lord  God." 

A  silence  ensued. 

I  raised  myself  softly  on  my  elbow,  and  peered 
through  a  crack  in  the  partition.  The  fat  man 
was  sitting  with  his  back  toward  me.  Facing 
him,  sat  a  merchant,  about  forty  years  old,  gaunt 
and  pale,  as  though  smeared  with  fasting  butter.' 
He  kept  incessantly  running  his  fingers  through 
his  beard,  blinking  his  eyes  very  rapidly,  and 
twitching  his  lips. 

"  The  crops  are  wonderfully  fine  tliis  year, 
sir," — he   began   again: — "all   the   time   T   have 

'That  is,  witli  oil,  hiitlcr  l)ein_ii  forhiddcn  during  the  Great  Fast 
(Lent),  because  it  is  an  animal  ])roduc't.  The  wealthy  replace 
it  with  costly  nut-oils;  the  poor,  with  sunHower-seed  and  other 
strong,  coarse  oils. — Thaxslator. 

258 


TITE   COTTNTTXG-TTOTTSE 

been  driving  I  luive  been  admiring  tbeni.  Be- 
ginning witb  Voronezh,  they  are  splencHd,  first- 
class,  sir,  1  may  say." 

"  The  crops  really  are  n't  bad," — replied  the 
head  of  the  counting-honse :  "but,  surely,  you 
know,  Gavrila  Antonitch,  that  the  autumn  gives 
good  promise,  but  't  will  be  as  the  spring  wills." 

"That's  a  fact,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch:  every- 
thing   is    according    to    God's    will;    you    have 

deigned  to  speak  the  exact  truth But  I 

think  your  visitor  has  waked  up,  sir." 

The  fat  man  turned  round  ....  and  lis- 
tened. 

"  No,  he 's  asleep.  However,  possibly  you 
know " 

He  stepped  to  the  door. 

"  No,  he 's  asleep,"^ — he  rejjeated,  and  re- 
turned to  his  place. 

"  Well,  and  how  is  it  to  be,  Nikolai  Eremye- 
itch? "^ — began  the  merchant  again: — "  we  really 
must  close  the  bargain.  .  .  .  Let  it  go  at  that 
then,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch,  let  it  go  at  that,"— -he 
went  on,  winking  uninterruptedly:  "two  grey 
bank-notes  and  one  white  note  for  your  grace, 
and  yonder — "  (he  nodded  his  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  manor-house)  " — six  rubles  and  a 
half.     Shall  we  strike  hands  on  it?  " 

"  Four  grey  notes,"  ^ — replied  the  clerk. 

'  The  (old-time)   grey  hank-note  was  for  two  rubles;  the  white, 
one  ruble. — Translator. 

259 


.AIEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"  Come,  three." 

"  Four  grey  witliout  the  white." 

"  Three,  Nikolai  Eremveitch." 

"  Three  and  a  half,  not  a  kopek  less." 

"  Three,  Nikolai  Eremveitch." 

"  Don't  even  mention  such  a  thing,  Gavrila 
Antonitch." 

"What  a  pig-headed  fellow!" — muttered  the 
merchant. — "  I  think  I  'd  ])etter  settle  the  matter 
myself  witli  the  lady."' 

"As  you  like," — replied  the  fat  man: — "you 
ought  to  Imve  done  it  long  ago.  Really,  what 's 
the  use  of  ])othering  yourself?  .  .  'T  is  much 
hetter  so!  " 

"  Come,  enough!  Stop  that,  Nikolai  Eremye- 
itcli.  Why,  he  flies  into  a  rage  on  the  instant !  I 
was  only  saying  that,  you  know,  to  liear  myself 
talk."     ^       "•  * 

"  No,  reallv  now  .  .  .  ." 

"  Have  done,  I  tell  you.  ...  I  was  joking,  I 
tell  you.  Come,  take  three  and  a  half, — what 
can  one  do  with  you?  " 

"  I  ought  to  take  foiu',  hut,  like  a  fool,  I  have, 
been  too  iiasty,  ' — muttered  the  fat  man. 

"  So,  yonder,  at  the  house,  six  and  a  half,  sir, 
Nikolai  Eremyeitch, — the  grain  is  sold  for  six 
and  a  half?  " 

"  Six  and  a  half,  ves,  vou  've  alreadv  been 
told." 

"  Well,  then,  strike  liands  on  tlie  bargain, 
Nikolai  Eremveitch — "  (the  merchant  smote  the 

260 


THE  couxrixcMiorsK 

clerk's  palm  with  his  outspread  lingers)  " — and 
God  bless  us!"  (Tiie  merchant  rose.) — "So 
now  1  '11  be  off  to  the  lady  mistress,  dear  little 
father,  Nikolai  Kremyeitch,  and  order  them  to 
announce  me,  and  1  '11  say:  '  Nikolai  Eremyeitch 
has  settled  on  six  and  a  half,  ma'am.'  " 

"  Say  just  that,  (iavrila  Antonitch." 

"  And  now,  please  to  accept." 

The  mercliant  handed  over  to  the  clerk  a  small 
bundle  of  paper-money,  made  his  bow,  shook  his 
head,  took  up  liis  luit  with  two  fingers,  twitched 
his  shoulders,  imparted  to  his  figure  an  undulat- 
ing motion,  and  left  tlie  room,  his  boots  squeak- 
ing decorously.  Nikolai  Eremyeitch  walked  to 
the  wall,  and,  so  far  as  I  could  observe,  began 
to  sort  over  the  money  which  the  merchant  had 
given  him.  A  red  head  with  thick  side-whiskers 
thrust  itself  in  at  the  door. 

"  AVell,  hoAv  are  things?  " — inquired  the  head: 
— "  Is  everything  as  it  should  be?  " 
1  es. 

"  How  much?  " 

The  fat  man  waved  his  hand  ^vith  vexation, 
and  pointed  toward  my  room. 

"Ah,  very  good!"  returned  the  head,  and 
vanished. 

The  fat  man  went  to  the  table,  sat  down, 
opened  a  book,  got  out  liis  abacus,'  and  began  to 

'  Tlic  iiicrdiiiiits  still  use  liu'  i-oiinlinjz-fnuiif,  r.tttliiig  tlio  CDlorcd 
balls  on  the  wires  to  and  fro  with  iiiarxelloiis  rapidity,  and  thus 
lierforming  the  most  intricate  calculations,  instead  of  using  paper 
and  pencil. — Translator. 

261 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

deduct  and  add  tlie  hone  balls,  using  for  the  pur- 
pose not  his  forefinger,  hut  the  third  linger  of  his 
right  hand,  wiiieh  is  more  decorous. 

The  clerk  on  duty  entered. 

"What  dost  thou  want?" 

"  Sidor  has  arrived  from  Goloplyok." 

"  Ah!  well,  call  him  in.    Stay,  stay Go 

first,  and  see  whether  that  strange  gentleman  in 
there  is  still  asleep,  or  whether  he  has  waked 
up. 

The  clerk  on  duty  cautiously  entered  my 
room.  T  laid  my  head  on  my  game-bag,  which 
served  me  in  lieu  of  a  pillow,  and  shut  my  eyes. 

"  He  's  asleep," — whispered  the  office-boy,  re- 
turning to  the  office. 

The  fat  man  emitted  a  growl  between  his 
teeth. 

"  Well,  summon  Sidor," — he  said  at  last. 

Again  I  raised  mj'self  on  my  elbow.  There 
entered  a  peasant  of  huge  stature,  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  healthy,  rosy-cheeked,  with  light, 
chestnut  hair,  and  a  small,  curly  beard.  He 
prayed  before  the  holy  pictures,  bowed  to  the 
head  clerk,  took  his  cap  in  both  hands,  and 
straightened  himself  u^). 

"  Good-day,  Sidor," — said  the  fat  man,  rat- 
tling his  counting-frame. 

"  Good  .  .  day,   Nikolai  Eremyeitch." 

"  Well,  and  how  's  the  road?  " 

"  Good,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch.     xV  trifle  mud- 

262 


THE   COUNTING-ITOXTSE 

dy."  (The  peasant  spoke  neither  fast  nor 
l()U(ll3^ ) 

"  Is  thy  wife  well?  " 

"  What  should  ail  her!    She  's  all  right." 

The  peasant  heaved  a  sigh,  and  thrust  out  his 
leg.  Nikolai  Eremyeitch  stuck  liis  pen  behind 
his  ear,  and  blew  his  nose. 

"Well,  and  why  hast  thou  come?" — he  went 
on  with  his  questions,  stuffing  his  checked  hand- 
kerchief into  his  pocket. 

"  Why,  we  've  heard,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch, 
that  carpenters  are  required  from  us." 

"  Well,  what  of  that — are  n't  there  any  among 
you,  I  'd  like  to  know?  " 

"Of  course  there  are,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch: 
ours  is  a  forest  hamlet, — j^ou  know  well.  But 
'tis  our  working  season,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch." 

"Your  working  season!  That's  precisely  the 
point  I  you  're  fond  enough  of  working  for  other 
folks,  but  you  don't  like  to  work  for  your  own 
mistress.  ...  It  amounts  to  the  same  thing!" 

"  The  work  is  the  same,  in  fact,  Nikolai  Ere- 
myeitch ....  but  .  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  The  pay  is  .  .  .  you  know  ....  awfully  ..." 

"  As  if  it  was  n't  enough  for  you !  Just  see, 
liow  spoiled  you  are!   Get  out  with  you!  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  want  to  sav,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch, 
there  's  only  work  enough  for  a  w-eek,  but  we 
shall  be  detained  a  month.     First  the  material 

2G3 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

gives  out,  and  then  we  '11  be  sent  into  the  garden 
to  clean  the  paths.'" 

"  A  pretty  reason !  The  mistress  herself  has 
deigned  to  command,  and  't  is  not  for  me  and 
thee  to  make  anv  argument." 

Sidor  said  notliing  for  a  \vhile,  and  began  to 
shift  from  foot  to  foot. 

Nikolai  Eremyeitch  twisted  his  head  on  one 
side,  and  rattled  the  reckoning-beads  vigorously. 

"  Our  ....  peasants  ....  Nikolai  Ere- 
myeitch   "  began  Sidor  at  last,  stammer- 
ing over  every  word: — "  have  ordered  me  to  give 
your  grace  .  .  .  and  here — there  are  .  .  .  ." 
(He  thrust  his  huge  hand  into  the  breast  of  his 
long  coat,  and  began  to  draw  thence  a  folded 
towel  with  red  patterns.) 

"  What  dost  thou  mean,  what  dost  thou  mean, 
fool?  hast  thou  gone  crazy,  pray?  " — the  fat  man 
hastily  interrupted  him. — "  Go,  go  to  me  in  my 
cottage," — he  continued,  almost  pushing  out  the 
astounded  peasant; — "ask  there  for  my  wife 
.  .  .  .  she'll  give  thee  some  tea;  I'll  be  there 
directly.  Go  thy  way !  Pray,  hast  not  thou  been 
told  to  go?  " 

Sidor  left  the  room. 

"What   a bear!" — muttered   the 

head  clerk  after  him,  shook  his  head,  and  began 
again  on  his  reckoning-frame. 

Suddenly  shouts  of:  "  Kuprya!  Kuprya!  you 
can't  upset  Kuprya!" — resounded  on  the  street 

264  M 

1 


THE   COUNTING-HOUSE 

and  on  the  porch,  and  a  little  latei-  there  entered 
tlie  office  a  man  of  low  stature,  consumptive  in 
appearance,  with  a  remarkably  long  nose,  large, 
impassive  eyes,  and  a  very  haughty  mien.  He 
was  clad  in  a  tattered  old  great-coat,  Adelaida 
colour, — or,  as  it  is  called  among  us,  '  oddeloida,' 
— with  a  velveteen  collar  and  tiny  buttons.  He 
carried  a  fagot  of  firewood  on  his  shoulders. 
Five  house-serfs  crowded  around  him,  and  all 
were  shouting,  "  Kuprya!  you  can't  upset  Ku- 
prya!  Kuprya  has  been  appointed  to  be  stove- 
tender!  "  But  the  man  in  the  great-coat  with  the 
velveteen  collar  paid  not  the  slightest  attention 
to  the  turbulence  of  his  companions,  and  never 
changed  countenance.  With  measured  steps  he 
walked  to  the  stove,  flung  down  his  burden,  rose, 
pulled  a  snuff'-box  from  his  rear  pocket,  opened 
his  eyes  wide,  and  began  to  stuff  his  nose  with 
powdered  melilot  mixed  with  ashes. 

When  the  noisy  horde  entered,  the  fat  man 
was  on  the  point  of  frowning,  and  half-rose  from 
his  seat;  but  on  seeing  what  the  matter  was,  he 
smiled,  and  merely  ordered  them  not  to  shout: 
"  There  's  a  sportsman  asleep  in  the  next  room," 
— said  he. 

"What  sportsman  ?  "—asked  a  couple  of  the 
men,  with  one  accord. 

"  A  landed  proprietor." 

"Ah!" 

"  Let  them  go  on  with  theii'  row," — said  the 

20.5 


]ME]MOIKS   OF   A   SPORT S^SI AX 

man  with  tlie  velveteen  collar,  flinging  wide  his 
anns: — "  what  do  I  care!  ii'  only  they  don't  touch 
me.  I  have  heen  appointed  to  he  the  stove- 
tender!  " 

"The  stove-tender!  the  stove-tender!" — joy- 
ously chimed  in  the  crowd. 

"  The  mistress  ordered  it," — he  went  on, 
shrugging  his  shoulders: — "hut  just  you  wait 
....  you  '11  be  appointed  swineherds  yet.  But 
that  I  have  heen  a  tailor,  and  a  good  tailor,  and 
learned  my  business  in^  the  best  workshops  in 
Moscow,  and  sewed  for  '  Enerals,'  is  sometliing 
that  nobody  can  take  away  from  me.  But  what 
are  you  putting  on  big  airs  about?  .  .  .  what? 
3^ou  are  sluggards,  drones,  nothing  more.  If 
they  were  to  set  me  free,  I  sliould  n't  die  of  hun- 
ger, I  shouldn't  go  to  destruction;  give  me  a 
passport, — and  I  '11  pay  in  a  good  quit-rent,  and 
satisfy  the  masters.  But  how  about  j^ou?  You'd 
perish,  perish  like  flies,  and  tliat  's  all  about  it!  " 

"  Thou  liast  lied," — interrupted  a  pockmarked 
vounff  fellow  witli  white  eyebrows  and  lashes,  a 
red  neckerchief,  and  ragged  el])ows: — "thou 
liast  had  a  passport,  and  the  masters  never  saw 
a  kopek  of  quit-rent  from  thee,  and  thou  hast 
never  earned  a  penny  for  thyself:  thou  hadst  all 
tliou  could  do  to  drag  thy  legs  home,  and  ever 
since  that  time  thou  hast  lived  in  one  wretched 
kaftan." 

"  And  what  is  one  to  do,  Konstantni  Xarki- 

266 


TITE   COTTNTTXCx-TTOITSE 

zitcli!" — retorted  Kupriyan: — "if  a  man  has 
fallen  in  love,  and  perished  and  gone  to  ruin? 
Do  thou  first  go  through  my  experience,  Kon- 
stantin  Narkiziteh,  and  then  thou  ma  vest  con- 
demn me." 

"  And  a  pretty  person  thou  didst  choose  to  fall 
in  love  with!  a  regular  monster!" 

"  Xo,  don't  say  that,  Konstantin  Xarkizitch." 

"  But  to  whom  art  thou  making  that  asser- 
tion? Why,  I  've  seen  her  myself;  last  year,  in 
Moscow,  I  saw  her  with  my  own  eyes." 

"  Last  year  she  really  had  gone  off  a  hit  in  her 
looks,"— remarked  Kupriyan. 

"  No,  gentlemen,  see  here," — interposed,  in  a 
scornful  and  negligent  voice,  a  tall  man,  with  a 
face  S2)rinkled  with  pimples,  and  all  curled  and 
oiled, — prohably  the  valet: — "  here  now,  suppose 
w^e  let  Kupriyan  Afanasitch  sing  his  httle  song. 
Come  on,  begin,  Kupriyan  Afanasitch !  " 

"Yes,  yes!" — chorused  the  others. — "Hey, 
there,  Alexandra!  thou  hast  caught  Kuprya! 
there's  no  denying  it.  .  .  .  Sing  away,  Kuprya! 
— Gallant  lad,  Alexandra!"  (House-serfs,  by 
way  of  showing  greater  tenderness,  frequently 
use  the  feminine  terminations  in  speaking  of  a 
man.) — "  Pipe  u])!  " 

"  This  is  not  the  place  to  sing," — retorted 
Kuprya,  firmly: — "this  is  the  gentry's  count- 
ing-house." 

But  what  business  is  that  of  thine?   I  do  be- 

267 


ME^rOIUS   OF   A    SPOKTS:SIAX 

lieve  thou  art  aiming  at  becoming  liead  of  the 
office  thyself! " — replied  Konstantin,  with  a 
coarse  laugh. — "  It  must  be  so!  " 

"  Everj-thing  is  in  the  power  of  the  mistress/' 
— remarked  the  poor  fellow. 

"See,  see  what  he's  aiming  at!  See  there, 
wliat  sort  of  a  fellow  lie  is!  Phew!  phew! 
ah!" 

And  all  burst  into  violent  laughter,  and  some 
even  jumped.  The  one  who  laughed  loudest  of 
all  was  a  wretched  lad  of  fifteen,  probably  the 
son  of  an-  aristocrat  among  the  house-serfs ;  he 
wore  a  waistcoat  with  bronze  buttons,  a  neck- 
cloth of  a  lilac  hue,  and  had  already  succeeded 
in  acquiring  a  portly  belly. 

"  Hearken  now,  Kuprya,  confess," — began 
Xikolai  Eremyeitch,  in  a  self-satisfied  way,  visi- 
bly in  a  sweat  and  affected: — "  't  is  a  bad  thing 
to  be  the  stove-tender?  Isn't  it  now?  a  trifling 
business,  altogether,  I  fancy?  " 

"  And  what  of  that,  Xikolai  Eremyeitch," — 
remarked  Kupriyan: — "here  you  are  now  our 
head  clerk,  't  is  true ;  there  's  no  disputing  that, 
it 's  a  fact ;  but  you  were  under  the  ban  once,  and 
lived  in  a  peasant's  hut  yourself  too." 

"  Just  look  out  for  thyself,  don't  forget  thy- 
self before  me," — the  fat  man  interrupted  snap- 
pishly:— "they're  jesting  witli  thee,  fool;  thou 
should  feel  it,  and  be  grateful,  fool,  that  tliey 
bother  tliemselves  about  tliee,  fool." 

208 


THE    COUNTING-HOUSE 

"  It  just  slipped  off  my  tongue,  Nikolai  Ere- 
myeitch,  pardon  me.  .  .  /' 

"  Just  so,  't  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue." 

The  door  flew  wide  open,  and  a  page  ran  in. 

"  Nikolai  Eremyeitch,  the  mistress  summons 
you  to  her  presence." 

"  AVho  is  with  the  mistress?" — he  asked  the 
page. 

"  Aksinya  Nikitishna  and  a  merchant  from 
Venyovo." 

"  I  11  be  there  in  a  minute.  And  as  for  you, 
brothers," — he  went  on,  in  a  persuasive  voice: — 
"  you  'd  better  take  yourself  away  from  here, 
with  the  newly  appointed  stove-tender:  nobody 
knows  when  the  German  may  drop  in,  and  he  '11 
complain  on  the  spot." 

The  fat  man  smoothed  his  hair,  coughed  into 
his  hand  almost  entirely  covered  by  his  coat- 
sleeve,  hooked  up  his  coat,  and  wended  his  way 
to  the  mistress,  straddling  his  legs  far  apart  as  he 
walked.  After  waiting  a  while,  the  whole  horde 
followed  him,  including  Kuprya.  ^ly  old  ac- 
quaintance, the  clerk  on  duty,  was  left  alone. 
He  started  to  clean  a  pen,  but  fell  asleep  where 
he  sat.  Several  flies  immediately  took  advan- 
tage of  the  fortunate  opportunity,  and  stuck 
themselves  around  his  mouth.  A  mosquito 
alighted  on  his  forehead,  planted  its  little  legs 
in  regular  order,  and  slowly  plunged  its  whole 
stini2f  into  liis  soft  bodv.     The  former  red-head 

269 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

with  side-wliiskcrs  made  its  appearance  again 
from  behind  the  door,  stared  and  stared,  and  en- 
tered the  office  with  its  decidedly  ut»lv  IkkIv. 

"Fedinshka!  Hey,  Fedinshka!  thou  art  eter- 
nally asleep !  " — said  the  head  cashier. 

The  clerk  on  duty  opened  his  eyes,  and  rose 
from  his  chair. 

"  Has  Xikolai  Eremyeitch  gone  to  the  mis- 
tress? " 

"  He  has,  Vasilv  Xikolaitch." 

"Ah!  ah!"— thought  I: — "'tis  he,  the  head 
cashier!  " 

The  head  cashier  began  to  walk  about  the 
room.  However,  he  stole  about,  rather  than 
walked,  and,  altogether,  bore  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  a  cat.  From  his  shoulders  depended  an 
old,  black  dress-coat,  with  very  narrow  tails;  he 
kept  one  hand  on  his  breast,  and  with  the  other 
kept  constantly  clutching  at  his  tall,  tight  stock 
of  horsehair,  and  twisting  his  head  in  a  strained 
way.  He  wore  goatskin  boots,  and  trod  veiy 
softly. 

"  Squire  Yagiishkin  was  asking  for  you  to- 
day,"— added  the  clerk  on  duty. 

"  H'm, — was  he?    What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  that  he  was  going  to  Tiutiiirevo  this 
evening,  and  would  expect  you.  '  1  must  have  a 
talk  with  Vasily  Nikolaitch  about  a  certain  mat- 
ter,' says  he, — but  what  the  business  was,  he 
didn't  mention:  'Vasily  Nikolaitch  will  know,' 
says  he. 

270 


THE    COUNTINCMIOUSE 

"  H'm! "- — returned  the  head  eashier,  and 
went  to  the  window. 

"  Is  Nikolai  Eremyeitch  in  the  office?  " — rang 
out  a  loud  voice  in  the  anteroom,  and  a  tall  man, 
evidently  in  a  rage,  \\ith  an  irregular,  but  bold 
and  expressive  face,  and  quite  neatly  dressed, 
strode  over  the  threshold. 

"Isn't  he  here?" — he  asked,  casting  a  swift 
glance  around. 

"  Nikolai  Eremyeitch  is  with  the  mistress," — 
replied  the  cashier. — "  Tell  me  what  you  want, 
Pavel  Andreitch:  vou  can  tell  me.  .  .  .  What 
do  you  wish?  " 

"  What  do  I  want?  You  wish  to  know  what  I 
want?  "  (The  cashier  nodded  his  head  in  a  sickly 
way.) — "  I  want  to  teach  him  a  lesson,  the  fat- 
bellied  wretch,  the  vile  tale-bearing  slanderer.  .  . 
I  '11  teach  him  to  tell  tales!  " 

Pavel  flung  himself  on  a  chair. 

"  What   do   you   mean,    A\'hat   do   you   mean, 
Pavel    Andreitch?     Calm    yourself.    .    .    .    .    . 

Aren't  you  ashamed?  Don't  you  forget  of 
whom  you  are  speaking,  Pavel  Andreitch!" — 
stammered  the  cashier. 

"  Of  whom  I  'm  speaking?  And  what  do  I 
care,  that  he  has  been  appointed  head  clerk!  A 
pretty  one  they  have  picked  out  for  the  appoint- 
ment, I  must  say !  They  've  actually  let  the  goat 
into  the  vegetable-garden,  one  may  say!  " 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,  Pavel  Andreitch, 
that  will  do!  stop  that  .  .  .  what  nonsense!" 

271 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"  AVcll,  Lisa  Patrikycvna,'  go  wag  thy  tail 
and  fawn!  ...  I  '11  wait  for  him,"— said  Pavel, 
anarilv,  and  banned  his  hand  down  on  the  table. 
— "  ^Vh,  yonder  he  comes," — he  added,  glancing 
out  of  the  window: — "talk  of  the  devil.  .  .  . 
You  are  welcome!  "    (He  rose.) 

Nikolai  Eremyeitch  entered  the  office.  His 
face  was  beaming  with  satisfaction,  but  at  the 
sight  of  Pjivel  he  grew  somewhat  embarrassed. 

"  Good  day,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch," — said 
Pavel,  significantly,  as  he  moved  slowly  toward 
him: — "  good  day." 

The  head  clerk  made  no  reply.  The  mer- 
chant's face  made  its  appearance  in  the  doorway. 

"Why  don't  you  deign  to  answer  me?" — 
went  on  Pavel. — "  But,  no  ...  .  no," — ^he 
added: — "  that 's  not  the  point;  nothing  is  to  be 
gained  by  shouting  and  abuse.  No,  you  'd  better 
tell  me  amicably,  Nikolai  Eremyeitch,  why  do 
you  persecute  me?  why  do  you  want  to  ruin  me? 
Come,  speak,  speak." 

"  This  is  not  the  place  to  give  you  an  explana- 
tion,"— replied  the  head  clerk,  not  without  agita- 
tion:— "  and  this  is  not  the  proper  time.  Only, 
I  must  confess  that  one  thing  amazes  mc: 
whence  have  you  derived  the  idea  that  I  want  to 
ruin  you,  or  that  I  am  persecuting  you?  And 
how,  in  short,  can  I  persecute  you?  You  are  not 
in  mv  office." 

'The  Russian  eqinvalciil   of  "Reynard   tlie  Fox."— Translator. 

'^72 


THE    COUNTING-HOUSE 

"  I  should  think  not," — rephed  Pavel: — "  that 
is  the  last  straw!  But  whv  do  vou  dissimulate, 
Nikolai  Eremyeitch? — You  understand  me,  vou 
see. 

"  No,  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Yes,  you  do." 

"No,- by  God,  I  don't!" 

"  And  he  swears  into  the  bargain!  Well,  then, 
if  it  has  come  to  that,  tell  me :  come,  j'ou  're  not 
afraid  of  God !  Well,  why  can't  you  let  the  poor 
girl  alone?   What  do  you  want  of  her?  " 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Pavel  Andre- 
itch?  " — asked  the  fat  man,  with  feigned  amaze- 
ment. 

"Eka!  you  don't  know%  I  suppose?  I'm 
speaking  of  Tatyana.  Have  the  fear  of  God 
before  your  eyes — what  are  you  avenging  your- 
self for?  Shame  on  5''ou:  you  are  a  married  man, 
you  have  children  as  old  as  I  am.     But  I  mean 

nothing  else  than I  want  to  many:  I 

am  acting  honourably." 

"  How  am  I  to  blame  in  the  matter,  Pavel 
Andreitch?  Our  mistress  will  not  allow  you  to 
marry :  't  is  her  ladyship's  will !  What  have  1  to 
do  with  that?" 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  and  have  n't 
you  and  that  old  witch,  the  housekeeper,  entered 
into  collusion,  I  'd  like  to  know?  Aren't  you  a 
calumniator,  I  'd  like  to  know,  hey!  Tell  me, 
are  n't  you  accusing  an  innocent  young  girl  of 

273 


31K.MOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMxVN 

all  sorts  of  fictitious  things?  It  is  n't  thanks  to 
your  gracious  offices,  1  suppose,  that  she  has  been 
appointed  disli-waslier  instead  of  laundress? 
And  they  don't  heat  her,  and  keep  her  clad  in 
striped  ticking.  })y  youi-  grace?  .  .  .  Sluune  on 
3^ou,  shame  on  you,  you  old  man!  The  first  j''ou 
know,  you  '11  be  smitten  with  paralysis.  .  .  . 
You  will  have  to  answer  to  God." 

"  Curse  away,  Pavel  Andreitch,  curse  away. 
....  You  won't  have  a  chance  to  curse  long!  " 

Pavel  flared  up. 

"What?  Hast  thou  taken  it  into  thy  head 
to  threaten  me?" — he  began  angrily. — "Dost 
think  that  I  fear  thee?  No,  brother,  thou  hast 
got  hold  of  the  wrong  man!  what  liave  I  to  fear? 
....  I  can  earn  my  bread  anywhere.  .  But 
thou — that's  another  matter!  Thou  canst  do 
nothing  Init  dwell  here,  and  slander,  and 
steal.  ..." 

"  Just  see  how  conceited  he  is!  " — the  clerk  in- 
terrupted him,  beginning  to  lose  patience: — "  a 
medical  man,  a  plain  medical  man,  an  ordinary 
little  peasant-surgeon;  and  just  listen  to  him, — 
whew,  what  an  important   peisonage!  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  peasant-surgeon,  and  were  it  not 
for  that,  your  gi-acious  person  would  now  be  rot- 
ting in  the  cemetery.  .  .  .  And  "t  was  the  Evil 
One  who  prompted  me  to  cure  him," — he  added, 
between  his  teeth. 

"  Thou  (hdst  cure  me?  ....   Xo,  tiiou  didst 

274 


THE    COUNTINCMTOUSE 

try  to  poison  inc;  thou  didst  give  me  a  potion  of 
aloes," — put  in  the  elerk. 

"  And  wliat  if  nothing  hut  aloes  would  take 
effect  on  thee?  " 

"  Aloes  are  prohihited  by  the  medical  authori- 
ties,"— went  on  Nikolai: — "I  can  enter  a  com- 
plaint about  thee  yet.  .  .  .  Thou  didst  try  to 
murder  me — that 's  what!  But  the  Lord  did  not 
permit." 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,  gentlemen," — the 
cashier  tried  to  speak.   .  .  . 

"  Stop  that!  "—shouted  the  clerk.—"  He  tried 
to  poison  me!   Dost  thou  understand  that?  " 

"  Much  I  care!  ....  Hearken  to  me,  Niko- 
lai Eremyeitch," — said  Pavel  in  desperation: — 
"  For  the  last  time  I  entreat  thee  ....  thou 
hast  forced  me  to  it — my  patience  is  exhausted. 
Leave  us  in  peace,  dost  thou  understand?  other- 
wise, by  God,  't  will  be  the  worse  for  some  one  of 
you,  I  tell  thee." 

The  fat  man  flew  into  a  rage. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid  of  thee,"— he  yelled:—"  dost 
hear  me,  booby!  1  mastered  thy  father,  1  broke 
his  horns  for  him, — let  that  be  a  warning  for 
thee,  look  out!  " 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  my  father,  Nikolai 
Eremyeitch,  don't  remind  me  of  him!  " 

"  Get  out!  I  don't  take  any  orders  from 
thee!" 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  him,  I  tell  thee! " 

275 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTS^NIAX 

"  And  I  tell  thee,  don't  forget  th3^self.  .  .  . 
As  the  mistress  does  not  need  thee  in  thy  line,  if 
she  had  to  choose  between  us  two,  thou  Avouldst 
not  be  tlie  winner,  my  dear  little  dove!  Xo  one  is 
permitted  to  mutiny,  look  out!"  (Pavel  was 
quivering  with  rage.) — "And  the  girl  Tatyana 
is  getting  what  she  deserves.  .  .  .  Just  wait,  and 
she  '11  get  something  worse." 

I'iivel  darted  forward  with  upraised  arms,  and 
the  clerk  rolled  heavily  to  the  floor. 

"Handcuff  him,  handcuff  him!" — moaned 
Nikolai  Eremyeitch.  .  ,  . 

I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  the  end  of 
this  scene.  I  am  afraid  I  have  wounded  the  sen- 
sibilities of  the  reader  as  it  is. 

I  returned  home  the  same  day.  A  week  later, 
I  learned  that  oNIme.  LosnyakofF  had  retained 
both  Pavel  and  Nikolai  in  her  service,  but  had 
banished  the  girl  Tatyana ;  evidently,  she  was  not 
wanted. 


276 


XII 

THE  WOLF 

I  WAS  driving  from  the  chase  one  evening  alone 
in  a  racing-drozhky.'  1  was  eight  versts  from 
my  house;  my  good  mare  was  stepping  briskly 
along  the  dusty  road,  snorting  and  twitching 
her  ears  from  time  to  time;  my  weary  dog  never 
(juitted  the  hind  wheels,  as  though  he  had  been 
tied  there.  A  thunder-storm  was  coming  on. 
In  front  of  me  a  huge,  purplish  cloud  was  slowly 
rising  from  beliind  the  forest;  overhead,  and  ad- 
vancing to  meet  me,  floated  long,  grey  clouds; 
the  willows  were  rustling  and  whispering  with 
apprehension.  The  stifling  lieat  suddenly  gave 
way  to  a  damp  chill;  the  shadows  swiftly  thick- 
ened. I  slapped  the  reins  on  the  horse's  back, 
descended  into  a  ravine,  crossed  a  dry  brook 
all  overgrown  with  scrub-willows,  ascended  a 
hillock,  and  drove  into  the  forest.  The  road  in 
front  of  me  wound  along  amid  thick  clumps 
of  hazel-bushes,  and  was  already  inundated  with 
gloom;  I  advanced  with  difficulty.    JNIy  drozhky 

'  The  racing-drozhky,  which  is  also  much  used  in  the  country, 
consists  of  a  plank  attached  (without  springs)  to  four  small 
wheels.  The  driver  sits  astride  of  the  plank,  with  his  feet  on  the 
shafts. — Translator. 

277 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

jolted  over  the  firm  roots  of  the  centenarian 
oaks  and  lindens,  whicli  incessantly  intersected 
tlic  long,  deep  ruts — the  traces  of  cart-wlieels ; 
my  horse  began  to  stumble.  ^V  strong  wind 
suddenly  began  to  drone  aloft,  the  trees  grew 
turbulent,  big  drops  of  rain  pattered  sliarply  and 
splashed  on  the  leaves,  the  lightning  and  thunder 
burst  forth,  the  rain  poured  in  torrents.  I  drove 
on  at  a  foot-pace  and  was  speedily  compelled  to 
halt ;  my  horse  had  stuck  fast.  I  could  not  see  a 
single  object.  I  sheltered  myself,  after  a  fash- 
ion, under  a  wide-spreading  bush.  Bent  double, 
with  my  face  wrapped  up,  I  was  patiently  await- 
ing the  end  of  the  storm,  when,  suddenly,  by  the 
gleam  of  a  lightning  flash,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  descried  a  tall  figure  on  the  road.  I  began  to 
gaze  attentively  in  that  direction — the  same 
figm'e  sprang  out  of  the  eartli,  as  it  were,  bj'  my 
side. 

"  Who  is  this?  " — asked  a  sonorous  voice. 

"  Who  are  you  yourself?  " 

"  I  'm  the  forester  here." 

I  mentioned  my  name. 

"Ah,  I  know;  vou  are  on  your  way  home?" 

"  Yes ;  but  you  see  what  a  storm  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  thunder-storm," — replied  the 
voice.  A  white  flash  of  lightning  illuminated  the 
forester  from  head  to  foot ;  a  short,  crashing  peal 
of  thunder  resounded  immediately  afterward. 
The  rain  poured  down  with  redoubled  force. 

278 


THE  WOLF 

"  It  will  not  pass  over  very  soon,"  continued 
the  forestei'. 

"What  is  to  be  done?" 

"  I  '11  conduct  you  to  my  cottage,  if  you  like," 
— he  said  abrnpth\ 

"  Pray  do." 

"  Please  take  your  seat." 

He  stepped  to  the  mare's  head,  took  her  by  the 
bridle,  and  turned  her  from  the  spot.  We  set 
out.  I  clung  to  the  cushion  of  the  drozhky, 
which  rocked  like  a  skiff  at  sea,  and  called  my 
dog.  JNIy  poor  mare  splashed  her  hoofs  lieavily 
through  the  mire,  slipping  and  stumbling:  the 
forester  swayed  to  right  and  left  in  front  of  the 
shafts,  like  a  spectre.  Thus  we  proceeded  for 
quite  a  long  time.  At  last  my  guide  came  to  a 
halt. — "  Here  we  are  at  home,  master," — he  said, 
in  a  calm  voice.  A  wicket-gate  squeaked,  sev- 
eral puppies  began  to  bark  in  unison.  I  raised 
my  head  and  by  the  glare  of  the  lightning  I 
descried  a  tiny  hut,  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious 
yard,  surrounded  with  a  wattled  hedge.^  From 
one  tiny  window,  a  small  light  cast  a  dull  gleam. 
The  forester  led  the  horse  up  to  the  porch,  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  "Right  away!  Right 
away!" — resounded  a  shrill  little  voice,  and  a 
patter   of    bare    feet    became    audible,    the    bolt 

'  In  central  and  southern  Russia,  wliere  timber  is  scarce,  long 
boughs  of  trees  arc  plaited  into  picturesque  iiedges,  to  replace 
board  fences.  Farm  buildings  frequently  have  their  walls  of  the 
same  wattled   work. — Translator. 

270 


me:moirs  of  a  sportsman 

screeched,  aiul  a  little  girl  about  twelve  years  of 
age,  clad  in  a  miserable  little  smock,  girt  about 
with  a  bit  of  list,  and  holding  a  lantern  in  her 
hand,  made  her  appearance  on  the  threshold. 

"  Light  the  gentleman," — he  said  to  her: — 
"  and  I  will  put  his  carriage  under  the  shed." 

The  little  lass  glanced  at  me,  and  entered  the 
cottage.  I  followed  her.  The  forester's  cottage 
consisted  of  a  single  room,  smoke-begrimed,  low- 
ceiled,  and  bare,  without  any  sleeping-shelf  over 
the  oven,  and  without  any  partitions:  a  tattered 
sheepskin  coat  hung  against  the  wall.  On  the 
wall-bench  lav  a  single-barrelled  gun:  in  one 
corner  trailed  a  heap  of  rags;  two  Lirge  pots 
stood  beside  the  oven.  A  pine-knot  was  burning 
on  the  table,  sputtering  mournfully,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  going  out.  Exactly  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  hung  a  cradle,  suspended  from  the 
end  of  a  long  pole.'  The  little  maid  extin- 
guished the  lantern,  seated  herself  on  a  tinv 
bench,  and  began  to  rock  the  cradle  with  her  left 
hand,  while  with  her  right  she  put  the  pine-knot 
in  order.  1  looked  about,  and  mv  heart  grew  sad: 
it   is  not   cheerful  to  enter  a  peasant's   hut   by 

'  A  stout,  long,  supple  sapliui;-  is  tixed  lirnily  ajrainst  one  wall. 
The  tip  is  in  the  niiildle  of  tlie  room,  anil  from  it  is  suspended 
the  cradle,  which  depresses  it,  and  acts  as  a  natural  sprin-j.  The 
iradle  mav  he  (like  Peter  the  Great's,  which  is  in  the  museum 
of  the  Kremlin  in  Moscow)  of  strong  linen,  distended  liy  poles 
at  the  ends,  hammock-fashion;  or  even  of  a  splint  basket.  It  is 
often  rocked  from  a  distance  Ity  means  of  a  rope  attached  to  one 
of  the  anjrle-cords. — Tkaksi.atoh. 

280 


TIIK   WOLF 

nijL^ht.      The  baby   in   the  cradlo   was  biratliino 
ht'a^  ilv  and  rai)i(llv. 

"  Is  it  possible  tliat  thou  art  alone  liere?  " — I 
asked  the  little  girl. 

Ves," — she  artieulated,  almost   inaudibly. 

"Art   thou   the   forester's   daui>liter? " 

"  Yes,"— she  whispered. 

The  door  ereaked,  and  tlie  forester  stepped 
across  the  threshold,  bendin«)-  his  head  as  he  did 
so.  lie  pieked  up  the  lantern  from  the  floor, 
went  to  the  table,  and  ignited  the  wiek. 

"  Pro})ably  you  are  not  accustomed  to  a  pine- 
knot," — he  said,  tossing  back  his  curls. 

I  looked  at  him.  Karelv  has  it  been  mv  for- 
tune  to  behold  such  a  line,  dashing  fellow.  lie 
was  tall  of  stature,  broad-shouldered,  and  splen- 
didly built.  From  beneath  his  dripping  shirt, 
which  was  open  on  the  breast,  his  mighty  nmscles 
stood  forth  prominently.  A  curly  black  beard 
covered  half  of  his  surly  and  manly  face;  from 
beneath  his  broad  eyebrows,  which  met  over  his 
nose,  small  brown  eyes  gazed  gallantly  forth. 
He  set  his  hands  lightly  on  his  hips,  and  stood 
bef(H-e  me. 

I  thanked  him,  and  asked  his  name. 

"My  name  is  Imiuki  "  ('IMiomas),  he  replied 
— "  but  my  nickname  is  '  The  \Volf.'  "  ^ 

'Ah,  are  you  The  WolfT' 

*  III    lln'    (lUMTiinuMit    of    Orel,    a    solitary,    surly    man    is    callod    a 

wolf  (hiriiik). 

•281 


MEMOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

I  gazed  at  him  with  i-edoubled  interest.  . 
From  mv  Ermolai  and  from  others  I  had  often 
heard  about  the  forester — ^The  AVolf,  whom  all 
the  peasants  round  about  feared  like  fire.  Ac- 
cording to  their  assertions,  never  before  had 
there  existed  in  the  ^vorld  such  a  master  of  his 
craft.  "  He  gives  no  one  a  chance  to  carry 
off  trusses  of  brushwood,  no  matter  what  the 
hour  may  be;  even  at  midnight  lie  drops  down 
on  you  like  snow  on  your  head,  and  you  need 
not  think  of  offering  resistance — he  's  as  strong 
and  as  crafty  as  the  devil.  .  .  .  And  it 's  impos- 
sible to  catch  him  by  any  means  whatever; 
neither  with  liquor,  nor  witli  monej";  he  won't 
yield  to  any  allurement.  31  ore  than  once  good 
men  have  made  preparations  to  put  him  out  of 
the  world ;  but  no,  he  does  n't  give  them  a  chance." 

That  was  the  way  the  neighbouring  peasants 
expressed  tliemselves  about  The  Wolf. 

"So  thou  art  The  Wolf,"— I  repeated.— 
"  I  've  heard  of  thee,  brother.  They  say  that 
thou  givest  no  quarter  to  any  one." 

He  pulled  his  axe  from  his  girdle,  sat  down 
on  the  floor,  and  began  to  chop  a  pine-knot. 

"  Hast  thou  no  housew^ife?" — I  asked  him. 

"  No," — he  replied,  and  brandished  his  axe 
fiercely. 

"  She  is  dead,  apparently." 

"  No — yes — she  is  dead," — he  added,  and 
turned  away. 

282 


THE  WOLF 

I  said  nothing;  he  raised  his  eyes,  und  h)()ked 
at  nie. 

"  She  ran  away  with  a  X'^'tty  burghei-  wh(j 
came  along," — he  remarked,  with  a  harsh  smile. 
The  little  girl  dropped  her  eyes;  the  baby  waked 
up,  and  began  to  cry ;  the  girl  went  to  the  cradle. 
—"There,  give  him  that,"— said  The  Wolf, 
thrusting  into  her  hand  a  dirty  horn.^ — "  And 
she  abandoned  him," — he  went  on,  in  a  low  tone, 
pointing  at  the  baby.  He  walked  to  the  door, 
and  turned  round. 

"  Probably,  master," — he  said, — "  you  cannot 
eat  our  bread;  and  I  have  nothing  but  bread." 

"  I  am  not  hungry." 

"  Well,  'suit  yourself.  I  would  boil  tlie  sa- 
movar for  you,  only  I  have  no  tea.  .  .  I  '11  go 
and  see  how  your  horse  is  getting  along." 

He  went  out  and  slammed  the  door.  I  sur- 
veyed my  surroundings.  The  hut  seemed  to  me 
more  doleful  than  before.  The  bitter  odour  of 
chilled  smoke  oppressed  my  breathing.  The 
little  girl  did  not  stir  from  her  place,  and  did 
not  raise  her  eyes;  from  time  to  time,  she  gave 
the  cradle  a  gentle  shove,  or  timidly  hitched  up 
on  her  shoulder  her  smock,  wliicli  had  slipped 
down;  her  bare  legs  hung  motionless. 

"  What  is  thy  name?  " — I  asked. 


'  The  Russian  peasants  use  a  cow's  horn,  with  a  cow's  teat  tied 
over  the  tip,  as  a  nursing-hot  tie.  The  dried  teats  arc  for  sale 
in  the  connnon  street-markets. — Traxsi.ator. 

283 


.AIEMOIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

"  Ulita," — she  said,  drooping  her  sad  httle 
face  still  lower  than  hefore.  Tlie  forester  en- 
tered, and  seated  himself  on  the  wall-bench. 

"  The  thunder-storm  is  passing  over," — he  re- 
marked, after  a  brief  silence; — "  if  you  com- 
mand,  I  will  guide  you  out  of  the  forest." 

I  rose.  The  Wolf  picked  up  his  gun,  and  in- 
spected the  priming. 

"  What  is  that  for?  " — I  inquired. 

"  They  are  stealing  in  the  forest.  They  're 
felling  a  tree  at  tlie  Hare's  Ravine," — he  added, 
in  reply  to  my  glance  of  inquiry. 

"  Can  it  be  heard  from  here?  " 

"  It  can  from  the  yard." 

We  went  out  together.  The  rain  had  ceased. 
Heavy  masses  of  cloud  were  piled  up  in  the  dis- 
tance, long  streaks  of  lightning  flashed  forth 
from  time  to  time;  but  over  our  heads  tlie  dark- 
blue  sky  was  visible;  here  and  there,  little  stars 
twinkled  through  the  thin,  swiftly-flying  clouds. 
The  outlines  of  the  trees,  besprinkled  with  rain 
and  fluttered  by  the  wind,  were  beginning  to 
stand  forth  from  the  gloom.  We  began  to  lis- 
ten. The  forester  took  off*  his  cap,  and  dropped 
his  eyes.  "  The — there,"  he  said  suddenly,  and 
stretched  out  his  arm; — "you  see  what  a  night 
they  have  chosen.  ' 

I  heard  nothing  save  the  rustling  of  the  leaves. 
The  Wolf  led  my  horse  out  from  under  the  shed. 
— "  But  I  shall  probably  let  him  shp,  as  matters 

•284 


THE   WOI.F 

stand," — he  added  aloud. — "  1  '11  o()  with  thee, 
may  I?" — "All  right," — he  replied,  and  haeked 
the  horse.^ — ^"  We  '11  eateh  him  in  a  trice,  and  then 
I  '11  guide  you  out.     Come  on !  " 

We  set  off.  The  Wolf  in  advance,  I  hehind 
him.  God  knows  how  he  found  the  road,  hut  lie 
rarely  halted,  and  then  only  to  listen  to  the  sound 
of  the  axe. — "  You  see," — he  muttered  between 
his  teeth. — "  You  hear?  do  you  hear?  " — "  But 
where?" — The  Wolf  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
We  descended  into  a  ravine,  the  wind  died  down 
for  an  instant,  measured  blows  distinctly  reached 
my  ear.  The  Wolf  glanced  at  me,  and  shook 
his  head.  On  we  went,  over  the  wet  ferns  and 
nettles.    A  dull,  prolonged  roar  rang  out 

"  He  has  felled  it,"— muttered  The  Wolf. 

In   the   meantime   tlie   skv   had    continued  to 
* 
clear;  it  was  almost   light   in   the   forest.     We 

made  our  way  out  of  the  ravine  at  last. — "  Wait 
here," — whispered  the  forester  to  me,  crouched 
down,  and  raising  his  gun  aloft,  vanished  among 
the  bushes.  1  began  to  listen  with  strained  in- 
tentness.  Athwart  the  constant  noise  of  the 
wind,  I  thought  I  discerned  faint  sovmds  not  far 
away:  an  axe  was  cautiousl}^  hewing  branches,  a 
horse  was  neighing. 

"Where  art  thou  going?  Halt!" — the  iron 
voice  of  .The  Wolf  suddenly  thundered  out.  An- 
other voice  shrieked  plaintively,  after  the  fashion 
of  a  hare A  struggle  began. — "  Thou 

285 


ME.AIOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

li-iest,  tlioii  li-iest," — The  Wolf  kept  repeating, 
panting  the  while;  "thou  shalt  not  escape." — I 
(lashed  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  noise,  and 
ran  to  the  scene  of  hattle,  stunihling  at  every 
step.  Beside  the  felled  tree  on  the  ground,  the 
forester  was  tumbling  about:  he  held  the  thief 
beneath  him,  and  was  engaged  in  binding  the 
man's  hands  behind  his  back  with  his  girdle.  I 
stepped  up.  The  Wolf  rose,  and  set  him  on  his 
feet.  I  beheld  a  peasant,  soaked  through,  in 
rags,  with  a  long,  dishevelled  beard.  A  misera- 
ble little  nag,  half-covered  with  a  small,  stiff 
mat,  stood  hard  by,  with  the  running-gear  of  a 
peasant-cart.  The  forester  uttered  not  a  word; 
the  peasant,  also,  maintained  silence,  and  merely 
shook  his  head. 

"  Let  him  go," — I  whispered  in  The  Wolf's 
ear. — "  I  will  pay  for  the  tree." 

The  Wolf,  M'ithout  replying,  grasped  the 
horse's  foretop  with  his  left  hand ;  with  his  right 
he  held  the  thief  by  the  girdle. — "  Come,  move 
on,  booby!" — he  ejaculated  surlih\ 

"  Take  my  axe  yonder," — muttered  the  peas- 
ant.— "Why  should  it  be  wasted?" — said  the 
forester,  and  picked  up  the  axe.     We  started.     I 

walked  in  the  rear The  rain  began  to 

descend  again  in  a  drizzle,  and  soon  was  pouring 
in  torrents.  A\'ith  difficultv  we  made  our  way 
to  the  cottage.  The  Wolf  turned  the  captiu'ed 
nag  loose  in  the  yard,  led  the  peasant  into  the 

286 


THE  WOI.F 

house,  loosened  the  knot  of  the  girdle,  and  seated 
him  in  one  corner.  The  little  girl,  wlio  had  al- 
most fallen  asleep  hy  the  oven,  sprang  uj),  and 
hegan  to  stare  at  ns  in  (hnnb  affright.  I  seated 
myself  on  the  wall-beneli. 

"  Kkh,  what  a  downpour!" — remarked  tlie 
forester. — "  We  must  wiut  until  it  stops. 
Would  n't  you  like  to  lie  down?  " 

"  Thanks." 

"I  would  lock  liim  up  in  the  lumber-room,  on 
account  of  your  grace," — he  went  on,  pointing 
at  the  peasant, — "  but,  you  see,  the  bolt " 

"  Leave  him  there, — don't  touch  him," — I  in- 
terrupted The  Wolf. 

The  peasant  darted  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 
T  inwardly  registered  a  vow  that  I  would  save 
the  poor  fellow  at  any  cost.  He  sat  motionless 
on  the  wall-bench.  By  the  light  of  the  lantern 
I  was  able  to  scrutinise  his  dissipated,  wrinkled 
face,  his  pendent,  yellow  eyebrows,  his  thin 
limbs.  .  .  .  The  little  girl  lay  down  on  the 
floor,  at  his  very  feet,  and  fell  asleep  again.  The 
Wolf  sat  by  the  table,  witli  his  head  propped  on 
his  hand.  A  grasshopper  was  chirping  in  one 
corner.  .  .  .  The  rain  beat  down  upon  tlie  roof, 
and  dripped  down  the  windows;  we  all  main- 
tained silence. 

"  Foma  Kuzmitch," — began  the  peasant,  sud- 
denly, in  a  dull,  cracked  voice: — "hey,  there, 
Foma  Kuzmitch!" 

287 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

"What  dost  thou  want?" 

"  Let  me  go." 

The  Wolf  made  no  reply. 

"  Let  me  go Hunger  drove  me  to  it. 

....  Let  me  go." 

"  I  know  you," — retorted  the  forester,  grimly. 
"  You  're  all  alike  in  your  village, — a  pack  of 
thieves." 

"  Let  me  go," — repeated  the  peasant. — "  The 
manager  ....  w'e  're  ruined,  that  s  what  it  is 
let  me  go !  " 

"Ruined!  ....  Xo  one  ought  to  steal!" 

"  Let  me  go,  Foma  Kuzmitch don't  de- 
stroy me.  Thy  master,  as  thou  knowest,  will  de- 
vour me,  so  he  will." 

The  Wolf  turned  away.  The  peasant  was 
twitching  all  over,  as  though  racked  with  fever. 
He  kept  shaking  his  head,  and  his  breatli  came 
irregularly. 

"  Let  me  go," — he  repeated,  with  mournful 
desperation. — "  Let  me  go,  for  God's  sake,  let 
me  go!  I  '11  pay,  that  I  will,  God  is  my  witness. 
As  God  is  my  witness,  hunger  drove  me  to  it 
the  children  were  squalling,  thou  know- 
est how  it  is  thyself.     'T  is  hard  on  a  man,  that 

it  IS. 

"  All  the  same,  don't  go  a-thieving." 
"  My      horse," — went      on      the      peasant, — 
"  there  's  my  horse,  take  it  if  thou   ^vilt  .  .  .  , 
'tis  my  only  beast  .....  let  me  go!" 

288 


THE  WOLF 

"  Impossible,  I  tell  thee.  I,  ulso,  am  a  sub- 
ordinate; I  shall  be  held  responsible.  And  it 
is  n't  right,  either,  to  eonnive  at  thy  deed." 

"  I  jet  me  go!  Poverty,  Foma  Kiizmiteh,  pov- 
erty, that 's  what  \s  the  trouble let  me  go!  " 

'*'I  know  thee!" 

"  Ihit  do  let  me  go!  " 

"  Eili,  what 's  the  use  of  arguing  with  thee;  sit 
still,  or  1  '11  give  it  to  thee,  understand?  Dost 
thou  not  see  the  gentleman?  " 

The  poor  fellow  di'opped  his  eyes.  ....  The 
Wolf  vawned,  and  laid  his  head  on  the  table. 
The  rain  had  not  stopped.  I  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen. 

The  peasant  suddenly  straightened  himself 
up.  His  eyes  began  to  blaze,  and  the  colour  flew 
to  his  face. — "  Well,  go  ahead,  devour!  Go 
ahead,  oppress!  Go  ahead!" — he  began,  screw- 
ing up  his  eyes,  and  dropping  the  corners  of  his 
lips: — "  Go  ahead,  damned  mui-derer  of  the  soul, 
drink  Christian  blood,  drink!" 

The  forester  turned  round. 

"  I  'm  talking  to  thee, — to  thee,  Asiatic,  blood- 
drinker, — to  thee!" 

"  Art  drunk,  that  thou  hast  taken  it  into  thy 
head  to  curse !  " — said  the  forester  in  amaze- 
ment.— "  Hast  thou  gone  crazy?  " 

"  Drunk !  ....  It  was  n't  on  thy  money, 
thou  damned  soul-murderer,  thou  \vild  beast, 
beast,  beast!  " 

289 


MEMUIKS    or   A    SrOKTS.MAN 

"  Akh,  iliou  ....  I  '11  give  it  to  thee!" 

"  What  do  I  care?  'T  is  all  one  to  me — I  shall 
perish  anyway;  what  can  I  do  without  a  horse? 
Kill  me — it  comes  to  the  same  thing;  whether 
Mitli  hunger,  or  thus,  it  makes  no  difference. 
Let  everything  go  to  destruction:  wife,  children, 
— let  tliem  all  perish.  .  .  .  But  just  wait,  thou 
shalt  hear  from  us!  " 

The  AVolf  half-rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Kill,  kill," — the  peasant  hegan  again,  in  a 

savage    voice:    "  Kill,    go    ahead,    kill " 

(The  little  girl  sprang  hastily  from  the  floor, 
and   riveted   her  eves   on   him.) — "Kill,    kill!" 

"  Hold  thy  tongue!  " — thundered  the  forester, 
and  advanced  a  couple  of  strides. 

"  Enough,  that  will  do,  Foma  Kuzmitch," — I 
shouted: — "let  him  alone.  .  .  .  Don't  bother 
with  hjm.  ..." 

"  I  won't  hold  my  tongue," — went  on  the  un- 
fortunate man. — "  It  makes  no  difference  how  .; 
he  murders  me.     Thou  soul-miu'derer,  thou  wild 

beast,  hanging  is  too  good  for  thee But 

just  wait  a  bit.  .  .  Thou  hast  not  long  to  vaunt 
thyself!  They'll  strangle  thy  throat  for  thee. 
Just  w^ait  a  bit!  " 

The  Wolf  seized  him  by  the  shoulder.  .  .  I 
rushed  to  the  rescue  of  the  peasant. 

"  Don't     touch     us,     master! " — the     foreste 
yelled  at  me. 

I  did  not  fear  his  threats,  and  was  on  the  point 

290 


I 


THE  WOT.F 

of  stretching  fortli  my  arm  \\iien,  to  my  extreme 
amazement,  with  one  twist  of  the  luind,  he  tore 
the  girdle  from  the  peasant's  elhows,  grasped 
Iiim  hy  the  eolhir,  banged  his  cap  down  over  liis 
eyes,  finng  open  the  door,  and  thrust  liim  out. 

"  Take  tliyself  and  thy  horse  off  to  the  devil!  " 
— he  shouted  after  him: — "  and  look  out,  an- 
other time  I  '11  .  .  .   ." 

He  came  back  into  the  cottage,  and  began  to 
poke  about  in  the  corner. 

"Well,  Wolf,"— I  said  at  last;— "thou  hast 
astonished  me.  I  see  that  thou  art  a  s])lendid 
voung  fellow\" 

"  Ekh,  stop  that,  master," — he  interrupted 
me,  with  vexation. — "  Only,  please  don't  tell 
about  it.  Now  I  'd  better  show  you  your  way," 
— he  added; — "because  you  can't  wait  for  the 
rain  to  stop." 

The  wheels  of  the  peasant's  cart  rumbled 
through  the  yard. 

"  You  see,  he  has  dragged  himself  oiF." — he 
muttered; — "  but  I  '11  give  it  to  him!  " 

Half  an  hoiu*  later  he  bade  me  farewell  on  the 
edge  of  the  forest. 


291 


XIII 

TWO  LANDED    PROPRIETORS 

I  haat:  already  liad  tlie  honour  of  introducing 
to  you,  my  indulgent  readers,  several  of  my  gen- 
tlemen neighbours ;  permit  me  now,  therefore,  b}'^ 
the  way  (for  us  writers  everything  is  "  by  tlie 
way  " ) ,  to  make  you  accjuainted  ^^'ith  two  more 
landed  proprietors,  on  whose  property  I  have 
often  hunted,  extremely  worthy,  well-inten- 
tioned individuals,  who  enjoy  the  universal  re- 
spect of  several  counties. 

I  will  first  describe  to  you  retired  INIajor-Gen- 
eral  VyatcheslafF  Ilarionovitch  Khvalvnskv. 
Picture  to  yourselves  a  tall  man,  finely  propor- 
tioned in  days  gone  by,  but  now  somewhat  pot- 
bellied, though  not  in  the  least  decrepit,  not  even 
aged,  a  man  of  mature  years,  in  the  very  prime 
of  life,  as  the  expression  is.  His  once  regular 
and  still  agreeable  features  have  changed  some- 
what, 't  is  true ;  his  cheeks  have  grown  pendent 
in  jowls,  numerous  radiating  wrinkles  have  clus- 
tered round  his  eyes,  some  teeth  are  already  miss- 
ing, as  Saadi  said,  according  to  Puslikin's  state- 
ment; his  light-chestnut  hair — all  that  is  left 
of  it,  at  least — has  turned  lilac,  thanks  to  a 
preparation    ])()ught    at    the    Romny    horse-fair 

292 


TWO  LANDED   I'ROriUKTOHS 

I'roni  a  Jew  wlio  gave  liiiiiself  out  as  being  an  Ar- 
menian; but  A'vateheslaft'  llarionovitcb  steps  out 
alertly,  lias  a  ringing  laugli,  elanks  bis  s])urs, 
twirls  bis  moustaebe,  ealls  biniself,  in  sliort,  an 
old  eavalrvnian,  wbile  it  is  a  well-known  fact  tbat 
real  old  men  never  call  tbemselves  old  men.  He 
generally  wears  a  surtout  buttoned  up  to  the 
tbroat,  a  tall  stock  witb  a  starcbed  collar,  and 
trousers  of  a  speckled  grey,  of  military  cut;  and 
be  wears  bis  bat  straight  on  bis  forehead,  leaving 
the  whole  back  of  his  head  outside.  He  is  a  very 
kind-hearted  man,  but  with  decidedly  peculiar 
ideas  and  habits.  For  example :  be  is  utterly  un- 
able to  treat  noblemen  who  are  not  wealthy  nor  of 
official  rank  as  his  equals.  In  talking  witb  them, 
be  generally  gazes  at  them  askance,  with  bis 
cheek  leaning  heavily  on  liis  firm,  white  collar, 
or  he  will  suddenly  take  and  illumine  them  with 
a  clear,  impassive  stare,  maintain  silence,  and 
wrioo'le  the  whole  of  his  skin  on  his  head  mider 
his  hair;  lie  even  pronounces  bis  words  in  a  dif- 
ferent way,  and  does  not  sav,  for  instance: 
"  Thanks,  Pavel  Vasilitch,"  or:  "  Please  come 
hither,  ^likhailo  Ivanitcb,"  but:  "  T'anks,  Pall 
'Asilicb,"  or:  "  Pe-ease  come  hither,  Mikhal' 
'Van itch."  And  be  behaves  in  a  still  stranger 
manner  to  ])eople  who  stand  on  the  lower  rungs  of 
the  society  ladder:  be  does  not  look  at  them  at  all, 
and  before  announcing  bis  wishes  to  them,  or  giv- 
•Mg  them  an  order,  be  repeats  several  times  in  suc- 

293 


MEISIOIRS    OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

cession,  with  a  preoccupied  and  dreamy  aspect: 
"  What 's  thy  name?  .  .  .  What 's  thy  name?  "-^ 
generally  with  a  remarkably  sharp  emphasis  on 
the  first  word,  "  wliat,"  and  uttering  the  rest 
very  rapidly,  which  imparts  to  his  whole  mode  of 
speech  a  pretty  close  likeness  to  the  cry  of  the 
male  quail.  He  is  a  frightfully  fussy  man,  and 
a  skinflint,  and  a  bad  farmer:  lie  has  taken  to 
himself  as  manager  a  retired  <iuartermaster,  a 
Little  Russian,  a  remarkably  stupid  man.  How- 
ever, in  the  matter  of  estate  management,  no  one 
in  our  parts  has,  so  far,  outdone  a  certain  impor- 
tant Petersburg  official,  who,  on  perceiving  from 
his  overseer's  report  that  grain-kilns  on  his  es- 
tate were  subject  to  frequent  conflagrations, 
which  caused  the  loss  of  much  grain,  issued 
stringent  orders  that,  henceforth,  no  sheaves 
were  to  be  placed  in  the  kiln  until  the  fire  was 
completely  extinguished.  This  same  dignitary 
once  took  it  into  his  head  to  sow  all  his  fields 
witli  poppies,  in  consequence  of  what  was, 
apparently,  an  extremely  simple  calculation. 
"  Poppies  are  more  expensive  tlian  rye,"  said  he: 
"  therefore,  it  w^ill  be  more  profitable  to  plant 
poppies."  And  he  also  commanded  his  peasant 
women  to  wear  kokoshniki  ^  made  after  a  pattern 

'  The  kokushnik  is  the  round,  coronet-shaped  head-dress  of  the 
peasant  women.  It  varies  in  sliai)e  and  appelhition  in  different 
districts,  kokdxlinik  hcing  the  generic  name.  Tlie  kika  is  tall  and 
j)ointed  in  front,  like  the  mitre  of  a  Roman  or  an  Anglican  bishop. 
— Thanslatoh. 

294 


t 


TWO  LANDED   PKOrilTETORS 

sent  from  Petershiir*^-;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
to   this   day   the    peasant    women    on    his   estates 

wear  the  round-coronet  head-(h-ess only, 

it  runs  up  to  a  sliarp  point  at  the  front,  hke  a 

kika But  let  us  return  to  Vyatcheslaff 

Ilarionovitch.  Vyatcheslaff  Ihuionovitch  is  ter- 
ribly fond  of  the  fair  sex,  and,  just  as  soon  as  he 
catches  sight  of  a  pretty  person  on  the  boulevard 
of  his  county  town,  he  instantly  sets  out  in  pur- 
suit of  her,  but  also  immediately  takes  to  limping 
— which  is  a  noteworthy  circumstance.  He  is 
fond  of  playing  cards,  but  only  with  persons 
df  a  lower  class;  they  say  to  him,  "  Your  P2xcel- 
lency,"  and  he  can  chide  them  and  scold  them  to 
his  heart's  content.  But  when  he  chances  to  play 
with  the  Governor,  or  with  some  official  person- 
age, a  wonderful  change  takes  place  in  him:  he 
smiles,  and  nods  his  head,  and  stares  with  all  his 
eyes, — he  is  fairly  redolent  of  honey.  ....  He 
even  loses  without  complaint.  Vyatcheslaff 
Ilarionovitch  reads  little,  and  while  he  is  read- 
ing he  keeps  his  moustache  and  his  brows  in 
incessant  motion,  as  though  a  wave  were  flowing 
over  his  face,  from  below  upward.  Especialh'' 
noteworthy  is  this  undulating  movement  on  Vyat- 
cheslaff Ilarionovitch's  face,  when  he  happens  (in 
the  presence  of  visitors,  of  course)  to  run  through 
the  columns  of  the  Journal  dcs  Dcbats.  He 
plays  quite  an  important  part  at  the  elections, 
but  declines  the  honourable  post  of  JNIarshal  of 

295 


MEISrOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

the  Xobility  out  of  parsimony. — "  Gentlemen," 
— he  generally  says  to  tlie  nobles  who  approacli 
him,  and  he  says  it  in  a  voice  tilled  with  patron- 
age and  independence: — "  I  am  greatly  ol)liged 
for  tlie  honour;  ])ut  I  have  decided  to  devote  my 
leisure  to  solitude." — And,  having  uttered  these 
words,  he  turns  his  head  sevei-al  times  to  right 
and  left,  and  then,  with  dignity,  drops  his  chin 
and  his  clieeks  on  his  neckerchief.  In  his  j'outh, 
he  served  as  adjutant  to  some  distinguished  per- 
son, whom  he  never  mentions  otherwise  than  by 
his  baptismal  name  and  patronymic;  'tis  said, 
that  he  took  upon  himself  not  alone  the  duties  of 
an  adjutant, — that,  for  instance,  donning  liis  full 
parade-uniform,  and  even  fastening  the  hooks, 
he  steamed  his  superior  in  the  bath — but  one  can- 
not believe  every  rumour.  ^Moreover,  General 
Khvalynsky  is  not  fond  of  referring  to  his  career 
in  the  service,  which  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  odd; 
it  apjiears,  also,  that  he  has  not  been  to  war. 
General  Khvalynsky  lives  in  a  small  house, 
alone;  he  has  never  experienced  conjugal  bliss  in 
his  life,  and  therefore,  to  this  day,  he  is  regarded 
as  a  marriageable  man,  and  even  a  good  catch. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  housekeeper,  a  woman 
of  three-and-thirtv  years,  black-eved,  black- 
browed,  plump,  fresh,  and  with  a  moustache, 
wears  starched  gowns  on  week-days,  and  puts 
on  muslin  sleeves  of  a  Simday.^     Vyatcheslaff 

' "  Sleeves,"  in  central  and  southern  Russia,  means  the  chemise, 
of  whicli   the  full  sleeves  and   the   guimpe-like  neck  portion   are 

296 


TWO  LANDED   ri^OrHIKTORS 

Ilarionovitch  is  happy  at  great,  formal  dinners, 
given  by  landed  proprietors  in  honour  of  gover- 
nors and  other  powers  that  be:  then  he  is,  so  to 
speak,  thoroughly  in  his  element.  On  such  occa- 
sions he  sits,  if  not  at  the  right  hand  of  tlie  Gov- 
ernor, at  least  not  very  far  from  him ;  at  tlie  be- 
ginning of  the  banquet,  he  is  generally  engaged 
in  maintaining  the  sense  of  his  own  dignity,  and 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  but  not  turn- 
ing his  head,  he  drops  a  sidelong  look  ui)()n  the 
round  napes  and  standing  collars  of  the  guests; 
on  the  other  hand,  toward  the  end  of  the  dinner, 
he  cheers  up,  begins  to  smile  on  all  sides  (he  has 
been  smiling  in  the  direction  of  the  Cxovernor 
from  the  very  beginning  of  the  feast) ,  and  some- 
times even  proposes  a  toast  in  honour  of  the 
fair  sex,  "  the  ornament  of  our  planet,"  as  he 
phrases  it.  General  Klivalynsky  also  makes  a 
far  from  bad  appearance  at  all  solemn  and  public 
sessions,  examinations,  assemblies,  and  exhibi- 
tions; and  he  is,  moreover,  a  master-hand  at  ap- 
proaching an  ecclesiastical  dignitary  and  receiv- 
ing his  blessing.^  Vyatcheslaif  Ilarionovitch's 
l^eople  do  not  shout  and  create  an  uproar  when 
they  meet  another  carriage  at  the  cross-roads  or 
ferries,  and  in  other  similar  circumstances;  on 

visible  above  the  sarafan,  or  full  frock.  The  sarafan  itself  has 
no  sleeves,  and  its  upper  edge  passes  under  the  arms,  from  which 
narrow  straps  pass  over  the  shoulders. — Tuansi.atok. 

'  Consideral)le  art  and  practice  arc  required  to  receive  a  bishop's 
hand  properly  and  gracefully,  on  the  upturned  palms,  held  in 
boat-shape,  raise  it  reverently  to  the  lips,  and  kiss  it,  in  return  for 
the  cross  of  blessing  bestowed.-  'ritANSLATOK. 

297 


MEMOiKS    OF    A    SPOKTSMAX 

the  contrary,  when  pushing  people  aside,  or  call- 
ing the  carriage,  they  say,  in  an  agreeable  gut- 
tural i)aritone  voice:  "  Pray,  pray,  allow  General 
Khvalynsky  to  pass  through,"  or;  "  General 
Khvalynsky's  equipage."  ....  Khvalynsky's 
equipage  is,  trutli  to  tell,  of  rather  ancient  fash- 
ion; his  lackeys'  liveries  are  decidedly  threadbare 
(that  they  are  grey,  with  trimmings  of  red  braid, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  mention)  ;'  the  horses, 
also,  are  somewhat  aged,  and  have  seen  hard  ser- 
vice; but  Yyatcheslaff  Ilarionovitch  makes  no 
pretensions  to  foppishness,  and  does  not  even 
consider  it  becoming  to  his  rank  to  throw  dust  in 
the  eyes  of  the  public.  Khvalynsky  is  not  en- 
dowed with  any  special  gift  of  language,  or,  per- 
haps, he  has  no  opportunity  to  display  his  elo- 
quence, because  he  not  only  will  not  tolerate  dis- 
cussion, but  even  rejoinder  in  general,  and  sedu- 
lously avoids  all  long  conversations,  particularly 
with  young  persons.  'T  is  safer,  in  fact ;  other- 
wise, with  the  present  generation  of  men,  a  ca- 
lamity might  befall:  they  might  immediately  be- 
come insubordinate  and  lose  their  reverence. 
In  the  presence  of  persons  of  superior  rank, 
Khvalynsky  maintains  silence,  in  the  majority 
of  cases,  but  to  persons  of  a  lower  rank,  whom, 
evidently,  he  despises,  but  with  whom  alone 
he  consorts,  he  makes  abrupt  and  harsh  speeches, 

The  regular  j)rerogative  of  a  general:  the  cape-coats  arc  trimmed 
with  rows  of  scarlet  braid. — Translator. 

298 


TWO  T.ANDED   PKOPKIETOKS 

incessantly  cmplovino'  expressions  such  as  the 
following:  "  But  what  you  are  saying  is  non- 
sense; "  or:  "I  find  myself  compelled,  in 
short,  m' dea' si',  to  call  to  your  attention,"  or: 
"  But,  after  all,  you  ought  to  know  with  wlioni 
you  are  dealing,"  and  so  forth.  lie  is  es- 
pecially dreaded  by  postmasters,  permanent  jus- 
tices of  the  peace,  and  station  superintendents. 
He  never  invites  any  one  to  his  own  house, 
and  lives,  so  says  rumour,  after  the  fashion  of 
a  miser.  Notwithstanding  all  which,  he  is  a  very 
fine  landed  proprietor, — "  an  ex-soldier,  a  disin- 
terested man,  with  principles,  vieucV  grognardf' 
his  neiohbonrs  say  of  him.  One  governmental 
procurator  permits  himself  to  smile  when  Gen- 
eral Khvalynsky's  excellent  and  solid  qualities 
are  referred  to  in  his  presence, — but  what  will 
not  envy  do! 

However,  let  us  pass  on  to  the  other  landed 
proprietor. 

INIardary  Apollonitch  Stegunoff  does  not  re- 
semble Klivalynsky  in  any  respect.  'T  is  not 
likely  that  he  was  ever  in  the  service  anywhere, 
and  he  never  has  regarded  himself  as  a  beauty. 
Mardary  Apollonitch  is  a  short,  plump,  bald  old 
gentleman,  with  a  double  chin  and  a  good-sized 
paunch.  He  is  very  hospitable  and  fond  of  jest- 
ing; he  lives,  as  the  saying  is,  at  his  ease;  winter 
and  summer  he  goes  about  in  a  wadded  striped 
dressing-gown.     In  one  point  only  does  he  agree 

299 


ME^SIOIRS    OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

with  General  Khvalvnskv:  lie,  also,  is  a  hachelor. 
He  has  five  hiindrcd  souls. ^  ^Nlardary  Apollo- 
iiitcli  busies  himself  with  liis  estate  in  a  pretty  su- 
perfieial  manner;  ten  years  ago  he  purehased 
from  Butenop,  in  jNIoscow,— in  order  not  to  be 
Ix^hind  his  age, — a  threshing-machine,  locked  it 
up  in  a  barn,  and  relapsed  into  contentment. 
Occasionally,  on  a  fine  summer's  da}^  he  will 
order  his  racing-drozhky  to  be  harnessed  up,  and 
will  drive  to  the  fields  to  take  a  look  at  the  grain 
and  to  pluck  corn-flowers.  JNIardarj^  Apollonitch 
lives  thoroughly  in  the  ancient  fashion.  And  his 
house,  also,  is  of  ancient  construction:  the  ante- 
room, as  is  fitting,  reeks  of  kvas,  tallow  candles, 
and  leather;  there,  also,  on  the  right,  is  a  buffet, 
with  smoke-pipes"  and  towels;  in  the  dining- 
room  are  family  portraits,  flies,  a  huge  pot  of 
geranium,  and  a  jingling  piano;  in  the  drawing- 
room  are  three  couches,  three  tables,  two  mirrors, 
and  a  hoarse  clock  with  carved  liands  of  black- 
ened enamel  and  bron/e;  in  the  study  are  a  table 
with  papers,  a  screen  of  bluisli  hue  with  small 
pictures  pasted  on  it  wliieh  have  been  cut  from 
various  ])ublications  of  the  last  century,  a  cup- 
board filled  Avith  stinking  })ooks,  spiders,  and 
l)lack  dust,  a  fat  arm-chair,  an  Italian  window, 
a  nailed-up  door  leading  to  the  garden.  .  . 

^  That  is,  male  serfs.     The  women  were  not  iiK-liided  in  the  Re- 
vision Lists. — Translator. 

-  For  ijrcjj.irin}^  tlie  .samov^ir:  the  pipes,  leading;-  to  the  outer  air, 
being  attached  to  the  samovar  at  need.— Tkanslatou. 

300 


TWO   l.AXDED   PROPRIETOKS 

In  a  word,  everything  is  as  it  should  be.  Mardaiy 
Apollonitch  has  a  multitude  of  doinesties,  and  all 
are  garbed  in  aneient  fashion:  in  long,  blue 
kaftans,  with  tall  collars,  trousers  of  a  muddy 
eolour,  and  short,  yellowisli  waistcoats.  They 
address  visitors  as:  "Dear  little  father."  His 
farming  operations  are  presided  over  by  a  peas- 
ant bailiff,  who  has  a  beard  that  spreads  all  over 
his  sheepskin  coat;  his  house,  by  a  wrinkled  and 
stingy  old  woman,  with  her  head  enveloped  in 
a  light-brown  kerchief.  In  INIardary  Aj)oll6n- 
itch's  stables  stand  thirty  horses,  of  varied  qual- 
ity; he  drives  out  in  a  home-made  calash, 
weighing  one  hundred  and  fifty  puds.'  He  re- 
ceives visitors  very  cordially,  and  entertains 
them  gloriously, — that  is  to  say,  thanks  to  the  stu- 
pefying properties  of  Russian  cookery,  he  de- 
prives them  of  all  possibility  of  occupying  them- 
selves with  anything  but  preference  until  close 
on  nightfall.  But  he  himself  never  occupies 
himself  with  anything  whatsoever,  and  has  even 
ceased  to  j^eruse  the  "  Dream-book."  But  there 
are  still  a  good  many  landed  proprietors  of  that 
sort,  among  us  in  Russia — the  question  is:  To 
what  end  have  I  begun  to  speak  about  him, 
and  why?  ....  So  now,  permit  me,  in  lieu  of 
a  reply,  to  tell  you  the  story  of  one  of  my  visits 
to  jMardary  Apollonitch. 

I  arrived  at  his  house  in  summer,  about  seven 

'A  pud  is  a  littk-  over  Uiliiy->i\  pouiuls. — Translator. 

301 


MEMOIRS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

o'clock  in  the  evening.  Tlie  Vigil  service  had 
just  ended, ^  and  tlie  priest,  evidently  a  very  timid 
young  man,  who  had  not  been  long  out  of  the 
theological  seminary,  was  sitting  in  the  drawing- 
room,  near  the  d(K)r,  on  the  very  edge  of  a  chair. 
iSIardary  Apollonitch  received  me  very  affec- 
tionately, according  to  his  w'ont:  he  sincerely  re- 
joiced over  every  guest,  and,  in  general,  he  was 
a  very  kind-hearted  man.  The  priest  rose,  and 
picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Wait,  wait,  batiushka," "  said  ^lardary 
Apollonitch,  without  releasing  my  hand. — 
"  Don't  go.  .  I  have  ordered  them  to  bring  thee 
some  vodka." 

"  I  don't  drink,  sir," — mvu'mured  the  priest 
in  confusion,  and  flushed  scarlet  to  his  very 
ears. 

"  What  nonsense !  " — replied  JNIardary  Apol- 
lonitch:— "  JNIishka!  Yushka!  vodka  for  the 
batiushka !  " 

Yushka,  a  tall,  thin  old  man  of  eighty  years, 
entered  with  a  wane-glass  of  vodka  on  a  dark- 
painted  tray  Variegated  with  spots  of  flesh- 
colour. 

The  priest  began  to  refuse. 

'  The  All-Night  Vigil,  consisting  of  Vespers  (or  Compline)  and 
Matins,  which  is  obligatory  before  the  celebration  of  the  morning 
Liturgy,  may  be  read  in  an  unconsecrated  l)ui]ding,  even  by  a 
layman,  and  is  not  mfrcquently  requested  by  the  devout. — Trans- 
lator. 

'"Dear  little  father":  the  form  of  address  for  ecclesiastics,  in 
particular. — Translator. 

302 


TWO  T.AXDED  ruorui K/rous 

"  Drink,  bdliiislika,  don't  put  on  airs,  il  is  n't 
nice," — remarked  the  squire,  reprovingly. 

The  poor  young  man  obeyed. 

"  Well,  noNv  thou  mayest  go,  batiushka." 

The  priest  began  to  bow  liis  farewell. 

"  Come,  very  good,  very  good,  go  along.  .  .  . 
A  very  fine  man," — went  on  JNIardary  iVpoUo- 
nitcli,  glancing  after  him: — "I'm  very  well 
satisfied  with  him,  only — he  's  young  yet.  15ut 
how  about  you,  mv  dear  fellow  V  ....  How  are 
you?  ^vhat  liave  you  been  doing  with  yourself? 
Let 's  go  out  on  the  balcony — just  see  what  a 
magnificent  evening  it  is." 

We  went  out  on  the  balcony,  sat  down,  and 
began  to  chat.  Mardary  ApoUonitch  glanced 
down,  and  suddenly  became  frightfully  agitated. 

"Whose  hens  are  those?  whose  hens  are 
those?" — he  began  to  shout: — "whose  hens  are 
those  running  in  the  garden?  ....  Yi'ishka! 
Yiishka!  go,  find  out  instantly  whose  hens  those 
are  running  in  the  garden! — Whose  hens  are 
those?  How  many  times  have  I  forbidden  it — 
how  many  times  have  I  spoken  about  that?  " 

Off  rushed  Yushka. 

"  What  disorder!  "  jNIardary  ApoUonitch  kept 
reiterating: — "  't  is  frightful!  " 

The  unlucky  hens,  as  I  now  recall  the  circum- 
stances, two  speckled  and  one  white  with  a  crest, 

'  Bdtkishka,  in  adclrt'ssing  social  equals,  has  this 
sense. —  riiAxsLATon. 

303 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

continued  to  stalk  about  ^  erv  quieth^  under  the 
apple-trees,  now  and  then  giving  vent  to  their 
feelings  by  a  prolonged  cackling,  when  sud- 
denly Yushka,  hatless  and  stick  in  hand,  and 
three  other  adult  house-serfs,  all  fell  upon  them 
energetically  and  in  unison.  The  fun  began. 
The  hens  shrieked,  flapped  their  wings,  cackled 
deafeningly;  the  house-serfs  rushed  about,  stum- 
bled, and  fell;  the  master,  from  the  balcony, 
yelled  like  a  fanatic:  "  Catch,  catch,  catch,  catch 
them!  catch,  catch,  catch  them!  .  .  .  Whose  hens 
are  those — whose  hens  are  those?" 

At  last,  one  of  the  men  succeeded  in  seizing 
the  crested  hen  and  squeezing  her  throat  to  the 
ground,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  over  the  hedge 
of  the  garden  leaped  a  little  girl  of  eleven  years, 
all  dishevelled  and  with  a  switch  in  her  hand. 

"  Hey,  so  that 's  the  owner  of  the  hens! "  ex- 
claimed the  squire,  triumphantly: — "  Ermil  the 
coachman's  hens!  There,  he  has  sent  his  Xatalka 
to  drive  them  home — I  wonder  why  he  did  n't 
send  Parasha," — added  the  squire  in  an  un- 
dertone, and  grinned  significantly. — -"  Hey, 
Yushka!  drop  those  hens:  catch  Xatalka  for 
me." 

But  before  the  panting  Yushka  could  over- 
take the  frightened  little  maid,  the  housekeeper 
made  her  appearance  from  somewhere  or  other, 
grasped  her  by  the  arm,  and  slapped  her  several 
times  on  the  back. 

304 


TWO  LANDED   PROI'RIKIOUS 

"  That 's  right,  that 's  right," — chimed  in  the 
squire, — "  te,  te,  te!  te,  te,  te! — But  take  the  hens 
away  from  her,  Avdotya," — lie  added  in  a  loud 
voice,  and,  turning  to  me  with  a  radiant  counte- 
nance:— "What  a  hunt,  wasn't  it,  my  dear  fel- 
low, hey? — Just  look,  I  'm  all  in  a  ]:)erspira- 
tion. 

And  INIardary  ApoUonitch  burst  out  laughing. 

We  remained  on  the  balcon^^  The  evening 
really  was  extremely  fine. 

Tea  was  served. 

"  Pray  tell  me," — I  began, — "  INIardary  Apol- 
lonitch:  are  those  your  homesteads  transplanted 
over  yonder,  on  the  highway,  beyond  the  ra- 
vinef 

"Yes— why?" 

"  How  could  you  do  such  a  thing,  INIardary 
ApoUonitch?  Why,  that's  a  sin.  The  peasants 
have  been  assigned  to  wretched,  cramped  little 
huts ;  there  is  n't  a  single  tree  to  be  seen  all 
around ;  there  's  not  even  a  pond ;  there  is  only 
one  well,  and  that  is  good  for  nothing.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  could  find  no  other  spot? — And  't  is 
said  that  you  have  even  deprived  them  of  their 
old  hemp-patches?" 

"  But  what  is  one  to  do  with  the  boundary- 
survey?"  replied  jNIardary  ApoUonitch.  "This 
is  where  the  survey  sits  with  me."  (He  pointed 
to  the  nape  of  his  neck.)  "And  I  foresee  no 
profit  whatever  from  that  survey.     And  as  for 

30.5 


mk:moirs  of  a  sports.aiax 

my  having  dejirived  them  of  their  hemp-patches 
and  ponds,  or  not  having  dug  any  there, — why, 
mv  dear  fellow,  1  know  my  own  business.  I  'm 
a  simple  man, — I  proceed  in  the  good  old  way. 
In  my  opinion,  if  one  is  a  gentleman — why,  let 
him  be  a  gentleman ;  if  he  's  a  peasant — then  let 
him  be  a  peasant. — So  there  you  have  it." 

Of  course,  it  was  impossible  to  make  any  an- 
swer to  such  a  clear  and  convincing  evasion. 

"And  besides," — he  went  on: — "they  are 
bad,  disgraced  peasants.  There  are  two  families 
there,  in  particular:  my  late  father,  even, — God 
grant  him  the  kingdom  of  heaven! — did  not  fa- 
vour them,  was  very  far  from  favouring  them. 
And  I  take  this  as  a  sign,  I  must  tell  you:  if  the 
father  is  a  thief,  the  son  is  a  thief  also;  you  may 
say  what  you  like — oh,  blood,  blood  is  a  great 
thing! " 

In  the  meantime  the  air  had  become  perfectly 
quiet.  Only  now  and  then  did  the  breeze  blow 
in  gusts,  and,  as  it  died  down,  for  the  last  time, 
around  the  house,  it  wafted  to  our  ears  measured 
blows  which  followed  one  another  quickly,  re- 
sounding from  the  direction  of  the  stables.  JNIar- 
dary  Apollonitch  had  only  just  raised  his  saucer 
of  tea  to  his  lips,  and  was  already  inflating  his 
nostrils,  without  which,  as  every  one  knows,  not 
a  single  genuine  primitive  Russian  imbibes  tea, 
— but  he  i^aused,  listened,  nodded  his  head,  took 
a  sip,  and  setting  the  saucer  on  the  table,  he  ar- 

30G 


TWO   LANDED    PUOrUlKTOKS 

ticiilated,  with  tlic  most  good-natured  of  smiles, 
and  as  though  iiivohmtarily  kee])ing  time  to  the 
hlows:  "  Teliiuki-tehiuki-tehiuk!  tehiuki-tchiuk! 
tchiiiki-tehiuk !  " 

"  What 's  that?  "- — 1  asked  in  amazement. 

"  Why,  by  my  orders,  that  misehievous  mon- 
key is  being  whipped  yonder. — Do  you  know 
Vasya  the  butler?  " 

"What  Vasya?" 

"  Why,  the  one  who  waited  on  us  at  dinner 
a  little  while  ago.  The  one  who  wears  such  huge 
side-whiskers." 

The  fiercest  wrath  could  not  have  withstood 
the  clear  and  gentle  gaze  of  jNIardary  Apollo- 
nitch. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  young  man,  what  do 
you  mean?" — he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "Am 
I  a  malefactor,  I  'd  like  to  know,  that  you  stare 
at  me  like  that  ?  Whom  he  loveth,  he  chasteneth : 
you  know  that  yourself." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  bade  JNIardary 
Apollonitcli  farewell.  As  I  drove  through  the 
village,  I  caught  sight  of  Vasya  the  butler.  He 
was  walking  along  the  street,  nibbling  nuts.  I 
ordered  my  coachman  to  stop  the  horses,  and 
called  him  to  me. 

"  Well,  brothc]*,  so  they  have  been  flogging 
thee  to-day?  " — I  asked  him. 

"  And  how  do  you  know?  " — answered  Vasya. 

"  Thy  master  told  me." 

307 


ME:M0IKS   OP"   A   SPORTSMAX 

"The  jiiastcr  liiiiiself?" 

"  What  did  lie  order  thee  to  be  whipped  for?  " 

*'  I  deserved  it,  dear  httle  father,  I  deserved 
it.  We  are  not  whipped  for  trifles ;  that 's  not 
the  enstom  with  us — naw,  naw.  Our  master  is 
not  that  sort  of  a  man;  our  master — why,  j^ou 
could  n"t  find  such  another  master  in  the  whole 
government." 

"Drive  on!" — I  said  to  my  coachman. 
"Here's  ancient  Russia  for  you!" — I  said  to 
myself,  on  my  homeward  journey. 


308 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

(1852) 


CONTENTS 

PAGF 

1  Lebedyan 3 

II  Tatyana  Borisovna  and  her  Nephew  ....     25 

III  Death        47 

IV  The  Singers 69 

V   PioTR    Petrovitch    Karataeff     ......   102 

VI  The   Tryst 129 

VII  Hamlet  of  Shshtchi'gry  County 146 

VIII  Tchertopkhanoff   and   Nedopiuskin    ,     .     .     .191 

IX  The    End    of    Tchertopkhanoff 224 

X  Living   Holy   Relics 285 

XI  The   Rattling SIO 

Epilogue:  Forest  and  Steppe 336 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 


LEBEDYAN  * 


OXE  of  the  chief  advantages  of  hunting,  my 
dear  readers,  consists  in  this — that  it  forces 
you  to  go  about  constantly  from  place  to  place, 
which  is  extremely  agreeable  for  an  unoccupied 
man.  In  sootli,  it  is  not  always  a  very  cheerful 
matter,  especially  in  rainy  weather,  to  roam  about 
on  the  country  roads,  to  go  "  cross-country,"  to 
stop  any  peasant  you  may  meet  with  the  ques- 
tion: "  Hey  there,  my  good  fellow!  how  can  we 
get  to  Mordovka?  "  and  in  Mordovka  inquire  of 
a  dull-witted  peasant  wife  (for  the  labourers  are 
all  in  the  fields)  whether  it  is  far  to  the  posting- 
stations  on  the  highway,  and  how  one  is  to  reach 
them, — and,  after  having  traversed  ten  versts,  in- 
stead of  a  posting-house,  to  find  one's  self  in  the 
extremely  dilapidated  little  manorial  hamlet  of 
Khudobubnovo,  to  the  intense  surprise  of  a  whole 
herd  of  swine,  buried  to  tlieir  ears  in  tlie  dark- 

^  I.ebedyan  is  the  capital  of  the  Government  of  Tamboff,  and  is 
celebrated  for  its  horse-fair,  to  which  cavniiy  remount-officers  resort 
to  purchase  horses. — Translatoii. 

3 


ME.AIOJKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

brown  mud  in  the  very  middle  of  the  street,  and 
not  at  all  expecting  to  be  disturbed.  Xeitlier  is  it 
exhilarating  to  cross  (juaking  little  ])ridges,  de- 
scend into  ravines,  and  ford  swampy  brooks;  it  is 
not  exhilarating  to  drive — for  \\  hole  days  to  drive 
along  the  greenish  sea  of  the  highways,  or,  which 
God  forbid,  to  get  bemired  for  several  hours  in 
front  of  a  striped  mile-post  with  the  figures  "  22  " 
on  one  side  and  "  23  "  on  the  other;  it  is  not  ex- 
liilarating  to  subsist  for  weeks  on  eggs,  milk,  and 
the  vaunted  sour  rye  bread.  .  .  .  But  all  these 
discomforts  and  misadventures  are  redeemed  by 
another  sort  of  benefits  and  pleasures.  However, 
let  us  begin  the  story. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  above,  there  is  no 
necessity  for  my  explaining  to  the  reader,  how  I 
happened  to  come  upon  Lebedyan,  five  years 
ago,  at  the  very  height  of  the  annual  fair.^  We 
sportsmen  may  drive  forth,  some  fine  morning, 
from  our  more  or  less  hereditary  estates,  with  the 
intention  of  returning  by  the  evening  of  the  fol- 
lowing day,  and,  little  by  little,  without  ceasing 
to  shoot  woodcock,  finally  arrive  on  the  blessed 
shores  of  the  Petchora  River.  JNIoreover,  every 
one  who  is  fond  of  dog  and  gun  is  a  passionate 
respecter  of  the  most  noble  animal  in  the  world 
— the  horse.  Thus,  T  arrived  at  I..ebedyan,  ])ut 
up  at  the  inn,  changed  my  clothes,  and  set  out 

*  There  are  innumerable  aiiniiMl  fnirs  in  Russia,  in  the  govern- 
ments and  districts. — Translator. 


LEBEDYAN 

for  the  i'uir.  (The  waitci-,  a  loii^-  and  ^aiint 
young-  i'cllow,  of  twenty  years,  witli  a  sweet, 
nasal  tenor  voiee,  had  aheady  contrived  to  im- 
part to  me,  that  Their  '  Illustrious  Highness, 
Prince  N.,  remount-ollicei-  of  the  *  *  *  regiment, 
was  stopping  at  our  inn;  that  many  other  gen- 
tlemen had  arrived;  that  the  gipsies  sang  in  the 
evenings,  and  that  "  Pan  Tvardovsky "  -  was 
being  played  in  the  theatre;  that  horses,  'twas 
said,  were  selling  for  high  prices, — and  good 
horses  had  been  brought  to  the  fair.) 

On  the  fair-ground,  in  interminable  rows, 
stretched  peasant  carts,  and  behind  the  carts 
were  horses  of  all  possible  sorts:  trotters,  stud- 
farm  horses,  J)iiiuk'i  ''  draught-horses,  ])osting- 
horses,  and  ])lain  peasant-horses.  Some,  well- 
fed  and  smooth,  assorted  according  to  colour, 
covered  with  horse-cloths  of  varied  hues,  hitched 
short  to  a  high  rack,  w^ere  appit'hensively  rolling 
their  eyes  backward  at  the  too  familiar  whips  of 
their  owners,  the  horse-dealers;  the  horses  of 
landed  proprietors,  sent  by  noblemen  of  the 
steppes  one  or  two  hundred  vei'sts  away,  under 
the  supervision  of  some  decrepit  coachman  and 
two  or  three  hard-headed  grooms,  were  flour- 
ishing their  long  necks,  stamping  their  hoofs,  and 
gnawing  the  posts  out  of  boredom;  roan  Vyatka 

"The  respectful  form  for  His. — Tr  vvsi.ATori. 
^The  dramatisation  of  a   novel   of  tliat   title,  published    (1859) 
by   Jos])eh    Ignatius    Kras(;'e\vsky    (181:2-1887). — Translator. 
^  Sec  note  on  p.  101,  Vol.  I. 

5 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

Iiorses  pressed  close  to  one  another;  in  majestic 
inini()l)ilitv,  like  lions,  stood  the  broad-liaunclied 
trotters  with  waving  tails  and  shaggy  pasterns, 
dapple-grey,  black,  and  brown.  Experts  pansed 
respectfully  in  front  of  them.  In  the  streets 
formed  by  the  carts,  i)eople  of  all  sorts  of  classes, 
stature,  and  aspect  thronged:  the  horse-dealers, 
in  blue  kaftans  and  tall  caps,  craftily  watched 
and  waited  for  purchasers;  goggle-eyed,  curly- 
haired  gipsies  darted  to  and  fro  like  madmen,  in- 
spected the  horses'  teeth,  lifted  their  feet  and 
tails,  shouted,  Avrangled,  served  as  go-betweens, 
cast  lots,  or  fawned  upon  some  remount-officer 
in  military  cap  and  cloak  with  beaver  collar.  A 
stalwart  kazak  towered  up  astride  of  a  lank 
gelding  with  a  deer-neck  and  sold  it,  "  in  one 
lot,"  that  is  to  say,  witli  saddle  and  bridle. 
Peasants,  in  sheepskin  coats  tattered  under  the 
armpits,  descended  by  tens  on  a  cart,  drawn  by 
a  horse  which  must  be  "  tried,"  or,  somewhere 
apart,  with  the  aid  of  a  cunning  gipsy,  they  bar- 
gained until  they  were  worn  out,  struck  hands 
on  the  deal  a  hundred  times  in  succession,  each 
insisting  on  his  own  price,  while  the  object  of 
their  dispute,  a  ^^•retche(l  little  nag  covered  with 
a  shrunken  rug,  merely  blinked  its  eyes,  as 
though  the  matter  did  not  concern  it.  .  .  .  And, 
in  fact,  was  it  not  all  the  same  to  it  who  would 
beat  it!  Broad-browed  landed  proprietors  with 
dyed  moustaches,  and  an  expression  of  dignity 

6 


LEBEDYAN 

on  tlieir  faces,  in  braided  jackets  and  canielot 
peasant-coats,  worn  with  an  arm  in  one  sleeve, 
condescendin^iy  conversed  with  })ot-helh*ed  mer- 
chants in  beaver  Iiats  and  green  ghnes.  Officers 
of  varions  regiments  were  discnssing  matters 
tliere  also;  a  remarkably  tall  cuirassier,  of  (Ger- 
man extraction,  was  coolly  asking  a  horse-dealer 
how  much  he  expected  to  get  foi-  that  sorrel 
horse.  A  fair-haired  young  hussar,  nineteen 
years  of  age,  was  picking  out  a  trace  horse  to  go 
with  an  emaciated  pacer;  a  postilion,  in  a  low- 
crowned  hat,  surrounded  with  peacock  feathers, 
in  a  bro\vn  long-coat,  and  with  leather  mittens 
thrust  into  his  narrow,  greenish  belt,  was  looking 
for  a  shaft-horse  for  a  troika.  The  coachmen 
plaited  their  horses'  tails,  dampened  their  manes, 
and  gave  deferential  advice  to  their  masters.  On 
concluding  the  trade,  they  hastened  to  the  eating- 
tavern  or  the  dram-shop,  according  to  their 
means.  .  .  .  And  all  this  uproar,  shouting, 
bustle,  wrangling,  reconciliations,  cursing,  and 
laughter  was  going  on  in  mud  knee-deep.  I 
wanted  to  buy  a  troika  of  fairly  good  horses,  for 
my  britchka:  mine  were  beginning  to  shirk  their 
work.  I  found  two,  but  could  not  manage  to 
match  them  with  a  third.  After  dinner,  which 
I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  (even  iEneas 
knew  how  unpleasant  it  is  to  recall  bygone  woe), 
I  set  out  for  the  so-called  coffee-house,  where 
every    evening    the    remount-officers,    stud-farm 

7 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

men,  and  otlier  visitors  ^vere  wont  to  assemble. 
In  the  l)illiar(l-room,  drowned  in  floods  of 
leaden-hiied  tobacco-smoke,  were  abont  a  score 
of  men.  There  were  free-and-easy  young  landed 
proprietors  in  braided  luissar- jackets  and  grey 
trousers,  with  long  mutton-chop  whiskers  and 
})omade(l  moustaches,  gazing  loftily  and  boldly 
about ;  other  nobles  in  kazak  coats,  with  remarka- 
bly short  necks  and  little  eyes  swimming  in  fat, 
were  painfully  snoring  away  there  also;  the  mer- 
chants sat  apart,  "  pricking  up  their  ears,"  as  the 
saying  is;  the  officers  chatted  freely  among 
themselves.  Prince  N.,  a  young  man  of  five  and 
twentv,  with  a  merrv  and  somewhat  scornfvd 
face,  clad  in  a  coat  thrown  open  on  the  breast,  a 
red  silk  shirt,  and  full  velvet  trousers,  was  play- 
ing billiards;  he  was  playing  with  Viktor  Khlo- 
pakofF*,  a  retired  lieutenant. 

Ex-Lieutenant  Viktor  Khlopakoff,  a  thin  and 
swarthy  little  man  of  thirty  j'ears,  Mith  thin, 
black  hair,  brown  eyes,  and  a  short,  tip-tilted 
snub-nose,  is  a  diligent  attendant  upon  elections 
and  fairs.  He  skips  as  he  walks,  sets  his  arms 
akimbo  swaggeringly,  wears  his  cap  on  one  ear, 
and  turns  up  tlie  sleeves  of  his  military  coat, 
lined  with  bluish  calico.  Mr.  Khlopakoff  under- 
stands how  to  curry  favour  with  the  wealthy 
Petersburg  rakes,  smokes,  drinks,  and  plays 
cards  with  them,  and  addresses  them  as  "  thou." 
Why  they  favour  him  is  a  good  deal  of  a  puzzle. 

8 


LET3E1)YAN 

He  is  not  clever,  he  is  not  even  anuising;  neither 
is  he  iisefnl  as  a  Ijuft'oon.  To  tell  tlie  truth,  tht'v 
treat  liini  in  an  aniieahly-careless  wav,  hke  a 
good-natured  l)ut  enipty-pated  fellow;  they 
haunt  his  society  for  the  space  of  two  or  three 
weeks,  and  then  suddenly  cease  even  to  how  to 
him,  and  he,  also,  no  longer  bows  to  them.  A 
peculiarity  of  lieutenant  Khlopakoff  consists  in 
this:  that  he  uses  one  and  the  same  expression 
constantly  for  the  period  of  a  year,  sometimes 
two  years,  appropriately  and  inappropriately, 
an  expression  not  in  the  least  amusing,  hut 
which,  God  knows  wdiy,  sets  every  one  to  laugh- 
ing. Eight  years  ago,  he  used  to  say,  at  every 
step,  "  JNIy  respects  to  you,  I  thank  you  most 
humbly,"  and  his  patrons  of  that  epoch  fairly  ex- 
pired with  laughter  every  time  and  made  him  re- 
l)eat,  "  ^ly  respects  " ;  then  he  began  to  use  a 
rather  complicated  expression,  "  No,  now  you 
know,  keskese — that  proves  proved,"  and  with 
the  same  dazzling  success;  two  years  later,  he  in- 
vented a  new  quaint  saying,  "  Ne  vous  gonjai- 
chez  ^  pas,  you  man  of  (iod,  sewn  up  in  a 
sheepskin,"  and  so  forth.  ^Vnd  lo!  as  you  see, 
his  far  from  ingenious  little  remarks  supply  him 
with  food,  drink,  and  apparel.  (He  has  long- 
ago  squandered  his  property,  and  lives  exclu- 
sively at  the  expense  of  his  friends.)  Observe, 
that   he    possesses    positively   no    other    amiable 

^  OoryatchitDi/a,  to  get  heated,  angry. — Thanslatob. 

9 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

characteristics:  'tis  true,  tliat  lie  will  smoke  a 
hundred  pipes  of  Zln'ikoff  '  tobacco  a  day,  and, 
when  playin«>'  billiards,  he  raises  his  right  foot 
higher  than  his  head,  and  as  he  takes  aim,  wrig- 
gles his  cue  violently  in  his  hand; — well,  but  not 
every  one  is  an  admirer  of  such  merits.  He  is 
a  good  drinker,  also  ....  but  it  is  difficult  to 
distinguish  one's  self  in  Russia  by  that  means.  .  .  . 
In  a  word,  his  success  is  a  complete  mystery  to 
me.  .  .  .  There  may  be  one  reason  for  it,  per- 
haps: he  is  cautious,  never  tells  tales  out  of 
school,  never  utters  a  bad  word  about  anybody. 

"  Come," — I  thought,  at  sight  of  Khlopakoff : 
— "  what 's  his  catchword  at  present?  " 

The  Prince  pocketed  the  w^hite. 

"  Thirty  and  nothing,"  roared  the  consumptive 
marker. 

The  Prince  drove  the  yelloAV  ball  into  the  i'ur- 
thest  pocket  with  a  crash. 

"  Ekh!"  approvingly  grunted,  with  his  whole 
body,  a  fat  merchant,  who  sat  in  one  corner  at  a 
tottering  little  table  on  a  single  leg, — grunted 
and  quailed.  But,  luckily,  no  one  noticed  him. 
He  sighed  and  stroked  his  beard. 

"Thirtv-six  and  verv  little!"-  shouted  the 
marker  through  his  nose. 

'  Equivalent  to  "  navy-plup: " — tlie  coarsest  sort  of  tobacco. — 
Thaxsi.ator. 

"The  game  alluded  to  is  a  game  witii  five  balls.  It  is  a  fasliion- 
able  fad  for  the  marker  to  say,  instead  of  "  tliirty  and  nothing," 
"tliirty  and  very  little,"  even  substituting  "nobody"  for  "no- 
thing."— Tkanslatok. 

10 


LKHKDVAX 

"  Well,  what  do  yon  lliiiik  of  thai,  hrollicr:' " 
the  Prince  asked  Klilopakolf. 

"  Wliy,  of  course,  rrrrakaliooon,  a  ic^iilar 
rrnakalioooii!  "  ' 

Tlic  l*rincc  huist  out  lau^l»ing. 

"  \\'hat,  what  *s  that^  say  it  again!  " 

"  Hrnakaiioon!  "  repeated  the  ex-heutenant, 
conceitedly. 

"  That  ^'s  the  word!  "  I  thouolit. 

The  Prince  pocketed  tlie  red. 

"Kkh!  that's  wron<4-.  Prince,  tliat 's  wrong," 
— suddenly  stammered  the  fair-haired  young 
officer  with  the  reddened  eyes,  the  tiny  nose,  and 
the  childishly  sleepy  face.  ..."  ^^ou  don't  play 
right  ....  you  ought  to  haye  ....  that  's 
wrong!  " 

"How  so?"  asked  the  Prince  oyer  his 
shouldei'. 

"  Vou  ought  to  haye  ....  you  know  .... 
witli  a  triplet.   .   .   ." 

"Really?'  muttered  the  Prince  through  his 
teeth. 

"  ^Vell,  Prince,  shall  we  go  to  the  gipsies  to- 
day? "  put  in  the  emharrassed  young  man. 
"  vStyoshka  is  going  to  sing.   .   .   .    lliushka  .  .  .  ." 

The  Prince  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Rrrrakaliooon,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Khlo- 
pakoff,  cunningly  screwing  up  liis  left  eye. 

'  Rakalii/d  means  n  scainji  or  ^ood-for-iiotliiiifr.     Rut  it  lias  no 
ajjpariiit    coiiiiection    with   tliis   nonsnisc-  -Thansi.atok. 

11 


ME.MOIUS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

And  the  Prince  Inirst  into  a  roar  of  laiigliter. 

"  Thirty-nine  and  nothing,"  proclaimed  the 
marker. 

"  All  ....  just  look  now,  what  I  'm  going 
to  do  witli  tliat  yellow  .  .  .  ."  Khlopakoff 
wriaaled  the  cue  in  his  hand,  took  aim,  and 
missed. 

"  Eh,  rrakahoon,"  he  sliouted  wrathfully. 

Again  the  Prince  laughed. 

"What,  wliat,  what?" 

But  Khlopakoff  did  not  wish  to  repeat  his 
word :  one  must  cocpiet  a  hit. 

"  You  have  made  a  miscue," — remarked  the 
scorer. — "  Please  to  chalk  ....  Forty  and  very 
little!" 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Prince,  turning  to 
the  Avhole  assembly,  but  not  looking  at  any  one 
in  particular: — "you  know,  we  must  call  out 
Verzhembitzkaya." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  without  fail,"  several 
visitors  vied  with  eacli  other  in  exclaiming,  being 
wonderfully  flattered  by  the  possibiHty  of  reply- 
ing to  the  remark  of  a  Prince: — "  Verzhembitz- 
kaya. .  .  ." 

"  Verzhembitzkaya  is  a  capital  actress, — far 
better  tlian  Sopnyakova,"  scpieaked  a  rascally- 
looking  man,  with  moustache  and  spectacles, 
from  one  corner.  Unhappy  man!  in  secret  he 
was  sighing  violently  for  Mme.  Soi)nyak6fF,  but 
the  Prince  did  not  deign  even  to  look  at  him. 

12 


LEEEDVAN 

"  Wai-er,  hey,  a  pipe,"  said  a  tall  man  in  a 
stock,  with  a  regular  face,  and  the  most  nohle  of 
miens, — hut  yet  hy  all  the  signs,  a  ear(l-shar])er. 

The  waiter  ran  for  a  l)ipe,  and  on  his  retm-n 
announced  to  His  Illustrious  Iligimess:  "  Posi- 
tilion  l^akhiga  is  asking  for  you,  sir." 

"Ah!  well,  order  him  to  wait,  and  give  him 
some  vodka." 

"  Verj'  good,  sir." 

Baklaga  (The  Flask) ,  as  I  was  afterward  told, 
was  the  nickname  of  a  young,  handsome,  and  ex- 
tremely petted  postilion ;  the  Prince  was  fond  of 
him,  gave  him  liorses,  di'ove  races  with  him,  spent 
whole  nights  witli  him.  .  .  .  You  would  not  rec- 
ognise that  Prince — formerly  a  scapegrace  and  a 
spendthrift — now.  .  .  .  How  puffed  up,  tight- 
laced,  and  perfumed  lie  is!  How  engrossed  in 
the  service, — and,  chief  of  all,  how  soher- 
minded ! 

But  the  tohacco-smoke  hegan  to  irritate  my 
eyes.  After  listening  to  KhlopakofF's  exclama- 
tion and  the  Prince's  shout  of  laughter,  for  the 
last  time,  I  betook  myself  to  my  chamber,  where, 
on  a  narrow  divan,  with  broken  springs,  covered 
with  horse-hair,  and  with  a  tall,  curved  back,  my 
man  had  already  made  up  my  bed. 

On  the  following  day  I  ins])ected  the  horses 
in  the  yards,  and  began  with  tlie  well-known 
horse-dealer  Sitnikoff.  Tln-ough  a  wicket  1  en- 
tered a  coiu'tyard  sprinkled  with  sand.     In  front 

13 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

of  the  wide-open  door  of  the  stable  stood  the 
proprietor  himself,  a  man  no  longer  young,  tall 
and  st(jut,  in  a  short-eoat  of  peasant  shape, 
lined  with  liareskin,  and  with  a  standing  collar 
turned  down.  On  perceiving  me,  he  slowly 
moved  to  meet  me,  held  his  cap  above  his 
head  with  both  hands,  and  said,  in  a  singsong 
tone: 

"  Ah,  our  respects  to  yon.  I  su])pose  yon 
want  to  look  at  horses?  " 

"  Yes,  I  came  to  look  at  horses." 

"  And  what  sort;  exactly,  may  I  venture  to 
inquire?  " 

"  Show  me  what  you  have." 

"  With  pleasure." 

We  entered  the  stable.  Several  white  curs 
rose  from  the  hay,  and  ran  to  us,  wagging  their 
tails ;  a  long-bearded  goat  stalked  off  to  one  side, 
in  displeasure;  three  grooms,  in  strong  but  dirty 
sheepskin  coats,  bowed  to  us  in  silence.  On  the 
right  and  the  left,  in  cleverly  i-aised  stalls,  stood 
about  thirty  horses,  splendidly  groomed  and 
cleaned.  Pigeons  w^ere  hopping  along  the  cross- 
beams and  cooing. 

"  For  what,  that  is  to  say,  do  you  recjuire  the 
horse:  for  driving  or  the  stud-farm?  " — SitnikofF 
asked  me. 

"  Both  for  driving  and  for  the  stud." 

"  I  understand,  sir,  1  understand,  sir,  I  under- 

14 


LEBEDYAN 

stand,  sir,"  articulatccl  tlic  horse-dealer,  pausin*;' 
between  liis  words. — "  Petya,  show  tlie  gentle- 
man Ermine." 

We  went  ont  into  the  yard. 

"  Would  n't  you  like  to  have  a  beneh  brought 
out  from  the  house?  ....  You  don't  want  it? 
....  As  you  please." 

Hoofs  thundered  over  planks,  a  whip  cracked, 
and  Petya,  a  man  of  forty  years,  pockmarked 
and  swarthy,  sprang  forth  from  the  stable,  in 
company  with  a  grey  and  fairly  well-made  stal- 
lion, allowed  him  to  rear  uj),  ran  with  him  a 
couple  of  times  round  the  yard,  and  cleverly 
pulled  him  up  at  the  show  spot.  Ermine 
stretched  himself  out,  snorted  with  a  whistling- 
sound,  flirted  his  tail,  twitched  his  muzzle,  and 
gazed  askance  at  us. 

"  A  well-trained  l)ird!  "  thought  I. 

"  Give  him  his  head,  give  him  his  head,"  said 
SitnikofF  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him,  sir?  " — he  asked, 
at  last. 

"  He  is  n't  a  bad  horse — his  fore  legs  are  not 
sound." 

"  His  legs  are  splendid!  " — returned  Sitnikoff, 
with  conviction. — "  And  his  loins  ....  be  so 
good  as  to  look  ....  a  regular  oven;  you  might 
even  sleep  your  fill  on  them." 

"  His  cannon-bones  are  long." 

15 


MEMOIKS  OF  A  SPOKTS^MAX 

"  AMiat  do  you  call  long — good  gracious! 
Run,  Petya,  run,  and  at  a  trot,  trot,  trot  .... 
don't  let  liini  gallop." 

Again  Petya  ran  round  tlie  yard  with  Ermine. 
We  all  maintained  silence. 

"  Well,  put  him  back  in  his  phice,"  said  Sitni- 
kofF: — ^"  and  bring  out  Falcon." 

Falcon,  a  stallion  bhick  as  a  beetle,  of  Dutch 
pedigree,  with  a  sloping  back,  and  lean,  proved 
to  be  little  better  than  Ermine.  lie  belonged  to 
the  category  of  horses  of  w^hich  sjiortsmen  say 
that  "  tliey  hack  and  cut  and  take  prisoner," — 
that  is  to  say,  in  action  tliey  turn  out  and  fling 
out  their  fore  legs  to  the  right  and  left,  but  make 
little  headway.'  JMiddle-aged  merchants  ad- 
mire that  sort  of  horses:  their  gait  is  suggestive 
of  the  dashing  pace  of  an  alert  waiter;  they  are 
good  in  single  harness,  for  a  drive  after  dinner; 
stepping  out  cock-a-hoop,  curving  their  necks, 
they  zealously  drag  the  clumsy  drozhky,  laden 
with  a  coachman  who  has  eaten  liimself  into  a 
state  of  numbness,  and  a  squeezed  merchant  '■ 
suffering  from  heart-burn,  and  a  lymphatic  mer- 
chant's wife,  in  a  sky-blue  silk  sleeved  coat,  and 

^Dishing,  in  J'higli.sh. — Translator. 

^  The  smaller  the  drozhky,  the  more  popular  and  stylish  it  is. 
If  the  passengers  bulge  over,  and  the  eoacliman,  through  his  own 
admired  fat  and  the  tightness  of  the  drozhky,  lias  to  straddle  the 
dashboard  with  his  knees,  and  keep  his  feet  on  iron  supports  out- 
side, the  heiglit  of  fashion  and  hajijiiness  is  assured.  If  not 
fat  enough  naturally,  eusliions  are  added  to  secure  the  "  broad 
seat"  which  Russians  consider  stylish  and  safe. — Translator. 

16 


LEBEDVAX 

with  a  lilac  kerchief  on  her  head.'  I  declined 
Falcon.  SitnikoiV  showed  nie  several  other 
horses.  .  .  .  At  last  one,  a  dappled-grey  stallion, 
of  \'oieikoff  hreed,  pleased  nie.  I  could  not  re- 
frain from  patting  liim  on  the  i'orelock  with 
pleasure.  SitnikofF  immediately  feigned  indif- 
ference. 

"  Does  he  drive  well?  " — I  inquired.  (The 
word  "  go  "  is  not  used  of  trotters.) 

"  Yes," — replied  the  horse-dealer,  calmly. 

"  Cannot  I  see  him?  "  .  .  .  . 

"  Why  not? — certainly,  sir.  Ilej',  there, 
Kuzya,  put  Overtaker  in  a  drozhky." 

Kuzya,  the  jockey,  a  master  of  his  business, 
drove  past  us  three  times  along  the  street.  The 
horse  went  well,  did  not  break,  did  not  sway,  his 
action  was  free,  he  held  his  tail  up  and  stepped 
out  firmly,  with  a  long,  regular  stride. 

"  And  what  do  you  ask  for  him?  " 

Sitnikoff  mentioned  a  preposterous  price. 
We  had  begun  to  chaffer  there,  in  the  street, 
when,  suddenly,  from  round  the  corner  thun- 
dered swiftly  a  splendidly  matched  posting- 
troika,  and  drew  up  in  dashing  fashion  in  front 
of  the  gate  to  Sitnikoff's  house.  In  the  dandi- 
fied sporting-cart  sat  Prince  X.;  beside  him 
towered  Khlopakoff.     The  Flask  was  driving, — 

'  Old-fashioned  women  of  the  nurciiant  class,  no  matter  how 
wealthy  they  may  be,  still  wear  no  lionnets,  but  merely  a  silk  ker- 
chief on  the  head. — TnANSt.ATon. 

17 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMxVX 

and  how  lie  drove!  he  could  have  got  through  an 
earring,  the  rascal !  The  hrown  side-horses,  small, 
vivacious,  hlack-eyed,  lilack-legged,  were  fairly 
on  fire,  fairly  gathered  themselves  together  with 
nen^ous  tension;  if  one  had  whistled,  they  would 
have  vanislied  like  a  shot.  The  dark -bay  shaft- 
horse  stood  firmly,  with  his  neck  curved  like  a 
swan's,  his  chest  thrown  forward,  his  legs  hke 
arrows;  he  shook  his  head  and  proudly  screwed 
up  his  eyes. — Good !  'T  was  like  some  one  taking 
a  drive  on  the  bright  festival  (Easter). 

"  Your  Illustrious  Ilighness!  Deign  to  fa- 
vour us!  "  cried  SitnikofF. 

The  Prince  sprang  from  his  cart.  Khlopa- 
koff  slowly  alighted  on  the  other  side. 

"  Good  morning,  brother.  .  .  .  Have  you  any 
horses? " 

"  Of  course  I  have  for  Your  Illustrious  High- 
ness. Be  pleased  to  enter.- — Petya,  bring  out 
Peacock, — and  let  Meritorious  be  made  ready. 
And  you  and  I,  dear  little  father," — he  con- 
tinued, addressing  me : — "  will  settle  our  busi- 
ness another  time.  .  .  .  Fomka,  a  bench  for  His 
Illustrious  Highness." 

Peacock  was  led  out  from  a  special  stable, 
which  I  had  not  noticed  before.  The  powerful 
dark-brown  horse  fairly  reared  with  all  four  feet 
in  the  air.  SitnikofF  even  turned  his  head  away 
and  narrowed  his  eyes. 

"Ugh,  rrakalion!" — proclaimed  KhlopakofF. 
— "  Zhemsa  "  (J'aime^a). 

18 


I.EBEDVAN 

The  Prince  laughed. 

lY^acock  was  halted  with  difHculty:  he  fairly 
dragged  the  stablemen  round  the  yard;  at  hist 
they  pressed  him  against  the  wall,  lie  snorted, 
quivered,  and  gathered  himself  together,  hut 
Sitnikoff  still  teased  him,  flourishing  a  whip  at 
him. 

"  Where  art  thou  staring?  1  11  give  it  to  thee! 
ugh!"  said  the  horse-dealer,  with  affectionate 
menace,  himself  involuntarily  admiring  his 
horse. 

"  How  much?  " — asked  the  Prince. 

"  For  Your  Illustrious  Highness,  five  thou- 
sand." 

"  Three." 

"  Can't  be  done,  Your  Illustrious  Highness, 
upon  my  word — " 

"  You  've  been  told  three,  rrakalion,"  put  in 
Khlopakoff. 

I  did  not  wait  to  see  the  end  of  the  bargain, 
and  went  away.  At  the  extreme  end  of  the 
street  I  noticed  at  the  gate  of  a  greyish  little 
house  a  large  sheet  of  paper  pasted  up.  At  the 
top  was  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  a  horse,  with  a 
tail  in  the  shape  of  a  trumpet  and  an  endless 
neck,  and  under  the  horse's  hoofs  stood  the  fol- 
lowing words,  written  in  old-fashioned  script: 

"  P'or  suk-  here,  horses  of  various  colours,  brought  to 
the  Lcbcdvi'iii  fair  from  the  well-kiioun  st  ud-fai-iii  dii  the 
steppe  of  Anastasey  Ivanitcli  Tchernobay,   landed  pro- 

19 


ME.MOIUS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

prietor  of  TainbufF.  These  horses  arc  of  excellent  form, 
perfectly  trained,  and  of  gentle  disposition.  ^Messrs. 
Buyers  will  be  so  good  as  to  ask  for  Anastasey  Ivanitch 
himself:  should  Anastasey  Ivanitch  be  absent,  then  ask 
for  his  coachman,  Naz;vr  Kuln'shkin.  We  beg  the 
Messrs.  Buyers  to  honour  an  old  man." 

I  halted.  "  Come,"  I  thought,  "  I  '11  take  a 
look  at  the  horses  of  tlie  well-known  horse- 
breeder,  ]Mr.  Tchernobav." 

I  tried  to  enter  the  wicket-gate,  but,  contrary 
to  custom,  I  found  it  locked.     I  knocked. 

"Who's  there?  ....  A  buyer?" — piped  a 
feminine  voice. 

"  Yes." 

"  Directly,  dear  little  father,  directly." 

The  wicket  opened.  1  beheld  a  peasant  wo- 
man about  fifty  years  of  age,  her  hair  uncovered, 
in  boots  and  a  sheepskin  coat  open  on  the  breast. 

"  Please  to  enter,  benefactor,  and  I  '11  go  at 
once  and  announce  you  to  Anastasey  Ivanitch. 
.  .  .  Nazar,  hey,  Nazar!  " 

"  What 's  wanted?  "  mumbled  the  voice  of  an 
old  man  of  seventy  from  the  stable. 

"  Get  the  horses  ready;  a  buyer  has  come." 

The  old  woman  ran  into  the  house. 

"  A  buyer,  a  buyer,"  Nazar  growled  after  her 
in  reply. — "  I  have  n't  got  all  their  tails  w^ashed 
yet." 

"Oh,  Arkadia!"  I  thought. 

20 


LKHKDVAN 

"Good  morning,  dcai-  little  f'ntlirr,  I  hcg  yonr 
favour."-  a  succiik-nl  and  agivcablc  xoicr  re- 
sounded hcliind  my  hack.  I  glanced  lound:  in 
front  of  me,  in  a  iong-slvirted,  blue  cloak,  stood 
an  old  man  ol'  medium  height,  with  white  hair,  an 
amiahle  smile,  and  very  handsome  hlue  eyes. 

"  Didst  thou  want  a  horse!'  Certainly,  dear 
little  i'ather,  certaiidy.  .  .  .  I^ut  wilt  not  thou 
first  come  in  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea  with  me?  " 

I  dechned,  witli  thanks. 

"  Well,  as  thou  wilt.  Thou  must  excuse  me, 
dear  little  father:  1  hold  to  the  old-fashioned 
ways,  seest  thou?"  (Mr.  Tehernohay  spoke 
without  haste,  with  a  rotund  pronunciation  of  the 
o.' )  —  "Everything  ahout  me  is  very  sim])le, 
thou  knowest.  .  .  .  Xazar,  hey,  Nazar," — he 
added  in  a  drawl,  and  without  I'aising  his  voice. 

Nazar,  a  wrinkled  little  old  man  with  a  hawk- 
like nose  and  a  wedge-shaped  little  heard,  made 
his  appearance  on  the  threshold  of  the  stable. 

"  \Vhat  sort  of  horses  dost  thou  require,  dear 
little  father?  "  went  on   Mr.  Tehernohay. 

"  Some  that  are  not  too  dear,  well  broken  to 
harness,  for  mv  kibitka." 

"  Very    well — 1    have    such  ....  certainly. 

'  I'll  less  tin-  accent  wliicli  is  variaMe  Iiapi>eiis  to  fall  on  the 
o,  it  is  pronounced  slij:lilin;rly,  somewhat  lii<e  <t.  This  is  tlie  new- 
f angled,  fashionable  inctiiod.  The  other  for:;;  indieates  either 
rusticity,  clinjriiiir  to  old  fashions,  or  that  the  s|)cak«T  helonps  to 
the  ecclesiastical  class,  the  o  i)eing  very  rotund  in  the  Old  Slavonic, 
which  is  always  used  in  the  services  of  the  Cliureh. — Thaxslator. 

21 


me:sioirs  of  a  sportsman 

.  .  .  Xazar,  Xaziir,  show  the  gentleman  the 
grey  gelding,  the  one  whieh  stands  at  the  end, 
thou  knowest,  and  the  hay  with  the  star,^ — -or  no, 
not  that  one  ....  tlie  other  ha}^  the  one  of 
]5eauty's  get,  knowest  thou?" 

Xa/iir  went  baek  into  the  stable. 

"  And  do  thou  lead  them  out  by  their  halters," 
shouted  ]Mr.  Tchernobay  after  him. 

"  I  don't  do,  dear  Ijttle  fatlier,"  he  w^ent  on, 
looking  me  frankly  and  gently  in  the  face,  "  as 
horse-dealers  do — confound  them!  they  use  gin- 
ger in  various  shapes,  and  salt  and  malt;'  I  wash 
my  hands  of  them  completely! — But  I  have 
everything  aboveboard,  without  trickery,  please 
to  observe." 

The  horses  were  led  out.  I  did  not  like 
them. 

"  Well,  put  them  in  their  places,  with  God's 
blessing,"  said  Anastasey  Ivanitch.  "  Show  us 
some  others." 

Thev  showed  some  others.  At  last  I  selected 
one  as  cheap  as  possible.  We  began  to  haggle. 
Mr.  Tchernobay  did  not  get  heated,  he  talked  so 
sensibly,  with  so  much  pompousness,  that  I  could 
not  help  "  honouring  the  old  man  ";  I  made  a  de- 
posit. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Anastasey  Ivanitch: — 
"  permit  me,  in  accordance  witli  ancient  custom, 
to  transfer  tlie  horse  to  thee  from  coat-skirt  to 

'  Salt  and  mall    fatten  a  horse  \en"  quickly. 

22 


LKBEDVAX 

coat-skirt Thou  wilt  thank  nie  i'oi-  it  .  .  .  . 

't  is  a  i'rcsh  beast,  sound  as  a  nut  ....  without 
a  thiw  ....  a  gen-u-inc  horse  of  the  steppe! 
It  will  go  in  any  harness." 

He  crossed  himself,  laid  the  skirt  ol'  his  great 
cloak  on  his  hand,  took  the  halter  and  transferred 
the  horse  to  nie. 

"■  Possess  it,  with  God's  blessing,  now 

And  thou  still  dost  not  wish  any  tea?  " 

"  No,  I  'm  greatly  obliged  to  you :  it  is  time  I 
was  going  home." 

"  As  thou  wilt.  .  .  .  And  shall  my  coachman 
lead  the  horse  after  thee  now?  " 

"  Yes,  now,  if  you  will  permit." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  man,  certainly.  .  .  . 
Vasily,  hey,  A^asily,  go  with  the  gentleman;  lead 
the  horse,  and  receive  the  money.  AVell,  good- 
bye, dear  little  father,  God  bless  thee." 

"  Good-bye,  Anastasev   Ivanitch." 

My  horse  was  led  home.  On  the  following 
day,  it  turned  out  to  be  foundered  and  lame.  I 
undertook  to  harness  it:  my  horse  backed,  and  it 
was  struck  with  the  whip;  it  began  to  balk,  kick, 
and  lie  down.  1  betook  myself  at  once  to  ]Mr. 
Tchernobiiy.     1  asked: 

"  Is  he  at  home?  " 

"  He  is." 

"What  do  vou  mean  bv  it?"  said  I: — "you 
have  sold  me  a  foundered  horse." 

"  Foundered?— God  forbid!  " 

23 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SP01{TSMAN 

"  And  it 's  lame  to  boot,  and  balks  into  the 
bargain." 

"  Lame?  I  know  nothing  about  that;  evidently 
thy  coachman  has  mined  it  somehow, — but,  I,  as 
in  the  sight  of  (iod — " 

"  By  rights,  Anastasey  Ivanitch,  you  ought  to 
take  it  back." 

"No,  dear  little  father,  don't  be  angry:  once 
the  horse  has  left  the  yard — there  's  an  end  of 
it.     Thou  shouldst  have  looked  at  it  before." 

I  understood  liow  the  land  lay,  submitted  to 
my  fate,  laughed,  and  departed.  Fortunately,  I 
had  not  paid  so  very  dear  for  iny  lesson. 

Two  days  later  I  drove  awav,  and  after  the 
lapse  of  a  week  I  passed  through  Lebedyan  on 
my  way  home.  In  the  coffee-house  I  found 
nearly  the  same  persons  as  before,  and  Prince  N. 
at  the  billiard-table.  But  the  customary  change 
in  Mr.  Khlopakoff 's  fate  had  already  had  time  to 
take  place.  The  fair-haired  young  officer  had  re- 
placed him  in  the  Prince's  favour.  The  poor  ex- 
lieutenant  made  an  effort  to  set  off  h.is  little 
word  once  more  in  my  presence, — perchance, 
thought  he,  it  will  please  as  heretofore, — •l)ut  the 
Prince  not  only  did  not  smile,  he  even  frowned 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  IMr.  Khlopakoff 
drop2)ed  his  eyes,  shrunk  together,  stole  into  a 
corner,  and  began  softly  to  stuff  his  pipe 
full 


24 


II 

TATYANA  IJOKISOVXA  AND  IIKR  NKPllFAV 

CiivE  me  your  hand,  my  umlahlc  reader,  and 
come  with  me.  The  weather  is  magnificent;  tlie 
May  sky  is  of  a  soft  azure  hue;  the  smooth, 
young  leaves  of  the  willows  glisten  as  thougli 
they  had  heen  washed;  the  hroad,  level  road  is 
all  covered  with  that  fine,  reddish-hladed  grass 
Avliich  the  sheep  are  so  fond  of  nihhling;  to  right 
and  left,  on  the  long  declivities  of  the  slo])ing 
hills,  the  green  rye  is  waving  gently;  the  shadows 
of  small  cloudlets  slip  across  it  in  thin  s])lotches. 
In  tlie  distance  forests  darkle,  ponds  ghmmer, 
villages  gleam  yellow;  larks  soar  upward  hy  hun- 
dreds, warhle,  fall  headlong  downward,  and  ])erch 
upon  small  clods  with  outstretched  necks;  daws 
halt  on  the  highway,  stare  at  you,  and  cower 
down  to  the  ground ;  they  allow  you  to  ])ass,  and, 
giving  a  couple  of  hops,  fly  off  to  one  side;  on 
tlie  lieiglit,  heyond  the  ravine,  a  peasant  is 
ploughing;  a  piebald  colt,  witli  a  stubby  tail  and 
dishevelled  mane,  is  running  on  unsteady  legs 
after  its  mother;  its  shrill  neiii'hing  is  audible. 
We  drive  into  a  birch  coppice;  the  strong,  fresh 
odour  agreeably  oppresses  our  breatli.     Here  is 

25 


MKMOIKS   Ol     A    SPOKTSMAX 

tlu-  iK.iiiMlaiv-lViKr;  the  coacliiiian  desceiuls  from 
his  st-at.  tlir"  li.»rses  snort,  the  side-horses  glance 
an.un.l.  the  shalt-horse  thrts  liis  tail,  and  leans 

hi.s   head   against    tiie   areh  ' the   rude 

bars  «»|H-n  with  a  s(|neaU.  Tlie  coachman  re- 
sumes his  seat.  .  .  .  Drive  on!  ahead  of  us  is  a 
xiUa^^'e.  After  passing  five  homesteads,  we  turn 
to  the  riglit.  descend  into  a  Iiollow.  and  drive  on 
the  (him.  Beyond  the  small  \nmd,  from  behind 
tiie  rounded  heads  of  apple-trees  and  lilac- 
huslies.  a  ImuihI  rool"  u  liich  lias  once  been  red,  with 
two  ehimneys.  is  visible.  The  coachman  directs 
liis  eourse  along  the  fence  to  the  left;  accom- 
panied hy  the  iioarse  and  yelping  barks  of  very 
aged  curs,  he  drives  through  the  wide-open  gate, 
daslies  a<boitly  round  the  spacious  yard,  past  the 
.stabU-s  and  cai  riage-hoiises,  bestows  a  swagger- 
ing l)ow  ii|)oii  the  old  hou.sekeeper,  who  is  step- 
ping sidtways  o\  er  the  lofty  threshold  into  the 
npeji  door  of  tile  storehouse,  and  draws  up,  at  last, 
in  front  of  the  small  ])o!-eh  of  a  tiny,  dark  house, 

with  hrigiit  windows We  are  at  Tatyana 

Horisovna's.     And  ydiidci-  is  she  herself,  opening 

the  hinged  paru'.  and  nodding  to  us Good 

morning.  m;itu.slikal " 

Tatyjina  Hoiisovna  is  a  woman  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  with  large,  grey,  prominent  eyes, 
a  ratlur  blunt  nose,  red  cheeks,  and  a  double  chin. 

'  'I  In-  iiri'li  <-oiiiu'<-tiii^'  \\\r  slijifts.     Thansiaiou. 
'  I.iti-raily.    "  Dt-ar    littlr    motlu'r";    an    affectionately    respectful 
riKMic  <»f  nddrfv;    fcir  any   woman,  of  any  class. — Translator. 

2G 


TxVTVAXA  BOUISOVXA 

Her  face  breathes  forth  welcome  antl  corrliahty. 
She  was  nian-ied  once,  but  soon  was  left  a  widow. 
Tatyana  Borisovna  is  an  extremely  remarkable 
woman.  She  resides  on  her  tiny  estate,  never 
leaves  it,  has  very  little  intercourse  with  lier 
neighbours,  and  receives  and  likes  only  young 
people.  She  was  the  daughter  of  very  })oor  gen- 
try, and  received  no  education  whatever, — that  is 
to  say,  she  does  not  speak  French;  she  has  never 
even  been  in  INIoscow, — and,  despite  all  these 
defects,  she  bears  herself  so  simply  and  finely, 
she  feels  and  thinks  so  freely,  she  is  so  little  in- 
fected with  the  ordinary  infirmities  of  the  petty 
landed  proprietress,  that,  in  truth,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  amazed.  .  .  .  And,  in  fact, 
think  of  a  woman  who  lives  the  j''ear  round  in  the 
country,  in  the  wilds — and  does  not  gossip,  does 
not  squeal,  does  not  courtesy,  does  not  get  ex- 
cited, does  not  choke,  does  not  quiver  with  curi- 
osity  She's    a    marvel!     She    generally 

wears  a  grey  taffeta  gown  and  a  white  cap  with 
pendent  lilac  ribbons ;  she  is  fond  of  good  eating, 
but  not  to  excess;  she  leaves  the  preparation  of 
preserves  and  dried  and  salted  provisions  to  the 
housekeeper.    "  What  does  she  do  all  day  long?  " 

you    ask "Does    she    read?" — No,    she 

does  not  read;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  books  are 
not  printed  for  her  benefit.  ...  If  she  has  no 
visitors,  mv  Tatvana  Borisovna  sits  at  the  win- 
dow  and  knits  stockings  in  winter;  in  summer 

27 


M  KM  OIKS   OF   A   srORTSMxVN 

slR-  stn.lls  in  the  -anlc.i.  i)laMt.s  and  waters  her 
llouc  IS   plavs  with  the  kittens  for  hours  too-ether, 

IVftls   tin-    pi-cms She   oeeupies    herself 

verv  httlc-  with  the-  h.uisekeeping.    But  if  a  guest 
ttunes,  S..MU-  young  Meighl)our   wlioni  slie  hkes, 
thtn  Tatvana   liorisovna  hiightens  up  all  over; 
she  givesliini  a  seat,  treats  liim  to  tea,  listens  to 
his  Ttories,  hiughs,  pats  him  on  the  eheek  from 
time  to  time,  hut   she  lierself  says  little:  in  ca- 
lamity, in  grief,  she  will  eomfort,  will  give  good 
adviee.     llow  n»any  people  have  confided  to  her 
tiu-ir  domestic,  their  intimate  secrets,   and  have 
wtpt  in  lur  arms!    She  will  seat  herself  opposite 
a  guest,  lean  softly  on  lier  elhows,  and  gaze  into 
his  eyes  with  so  much  sympathy,  will  smile  in  so 
friendly  a  manner,  that  the  thought  will,  inevi- 
tahlv.  i.ceur   to   the   visitor:   "What   a  splendid 
woman    thou    art.    Tatyana    Borisovna!     Come 
iiou.  I    11  tell  thee  what  1  have  on  my  heart."     A 
man  feels  at  ease  and  warm  in  her  small,  cosy 
rooms:  the  weather  is  always  fine  in  her  house,  if 
one  mav  so  ex])ress  one's  self.     A  wonderfid  wo- 
man  is  Tatyiina   15orisovna.  hut  no  one   is  sur- 
prised at  her:  her  sound  sense,  firmness,  and  free- 
jjom.   lit  I-  ardent   svm])ithv   with  the  woes  and 
joys  <♦!'  other  pe');,le.  in  a  word,  all  her  fine  quali- 
ties seem   to  ha\e   heen   horn   with   her,   to  liave 
cost  her  no  lahour  or  anxiety.   ...   It  is  impos- 
sihle    to    imagine    her    otherwise;    consequently, 
there  is  nothing  to  thank  her  for.     She  is  particu- 

28 


TATYANA  EORISOVNA 

iarly  fond  of  watcliing  the  games  and  pranks  of 
young  people;  she  will  fold  her  hands  on  lier  hip, 
lay  her  head  on  one  side,  screw  up  her  eyes,  and 
sit  smiling;  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  will  sigh  and 

say:  "  Akli,  you,  my  children,  children!  " 

So  that  you  feel  like  going  to  her,  and  taking  her 
hand,  and  saying  to  her:  "  Listen,  Tatyana  Bori- 
sovna,  5^ou  don't  know  your  own  value,  for,  with 
all  your  simplicity  and  lack  of  education,  you  are 
a  remarkahle  being!  "  Her  very  name  has  a  sort 
of  familiar,  cordial  ring,  one  utters  it  with  pleas- 
ure, it  evokes  a  friendly  smile.  How  many  times 
has  it  happened  to  me,  for  instance,  to  ask  a  peas- 
ant whom  I  chanced  to  meet:  "  How  am  I  to  get 
to  Gratchyovko,"  let  us  say,  "  brother?  " — "Well, 
dear  little  father,  do  you  go  first  to  Vyazovoe, 
and  thence  to  Tatyana  Borisovna's,  and  from 
Tatyana  Borisovna's  any  one  will  point  out  the 
way  to  you."  And  at  the  name  of  Tatyana  Bori- 
sovna  the  peasant  will  shake  his  head  in  quite  a 
peculiar  manner.  She  keeps  only  a  small  staff 
of  servants,  in  consonance  with  her  means.  In 
the  house,  the  laundry,  storeroom,  and  kitchen 
are  under  the  charge  of  the  housekeeper,  Aga- 
fya,  formerly  her  nurse,  an  extremely  good- 
hearted,  tearful,  and  toothless  creature;  two 
buxom  maids,  with  strong,  purplish-red  cheeks, 
after  the  pattern  of  Antonoff  (winter)  apples, 
are  under  her  orders.  The  duties  of  valet,  butler, 
and  pantry-man  are  discharged  by  Polikarp,  p 

29 


Ml. Mollis   C)l'   A   srOUTSMAN 

siTvaiit  (>r  scvtiity  ytars,  a  remarkably  eccentric 
Itt-rsuu.  a  UL-ll-rcad  man.  a  iormer  violinist  and 
W(ir>liii)i)cr  of  Viotti.  a  personal  foe  of  Xapo- 
Kmhi.  itr.  as  lie  says,  of  '  H()nai)arlishka,"  '  and  a 
passionate  adorer  of  ni^litinoales.  He  always 
keejjs  five  or  six  of  them  in  his  room;  early  in  the 
^prin^^  he  sits  lieside  their  eat>es  for  whole  days 
at  a  tinu-.  awaiting-  tlieir  first  "warble";  and 
when  it  comes  lie  covers  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  moans:  "  Okh,  'tis  j)itifnl,  pitiful!  "—and 
heiriiis  to  weep  as  thou<ih  his  heart  would  break. 
lN)lik;ir|)'s  orandson.  A'asya,  a  lad  of  twelve 
years,  eiiily-iiaired  and  keen-eyed,  is  appointed 
to  assist  him:  Polikarp  loves  him  unboundedly, 
and  «rninil)les  at  him  from  morning  until  night. 
But  he  I'usies  himself  with  his  education. — 
"  Vasya."  he  says,  "tell  me:  is  Bonapartishka 
a  brigand:'  " — "What  wilt  thou  give,  daddy?" 
— "  What  will  1  give!*  ...  1  won't  give  thee 
anything  .  .  \Vh()  art  thou,  1  'd  like  to  know? 
Art  thon  a  Russian?" — "I'm  an  Amtclianin, 
daddy:  I  was  born  in  Amtchensk."  ^  "Oh, 
stupid  head!  and  where 's  Aintchensk? " — 
"IIow  should  I  know!" — "Is  Amtchensk  in 
Russia,  stupid;'  *" — "  \Vell,  and  if  it  is  in  Russia, 
what  thin;'  " — "  A\'iiat  dost  thou  mean  by  '  what 

'  Tin*  (liiiiiiiutivc  of  scorn  and  utter  worthlessness  ends  thus  in 
ishka. — Tba  sgi.AToit. 

'In  |M>])ular  s|)i'<-(li,  tin-  town  of  .Mtziiisk  is  failed  Anitehensk, 
and  its  «iti/.«iis  Aintcliiiiii.  The  Auitehani  men  are  daring;  not 
without   reason  is  an  enemy  witii  us  promised  "an  auitchanin." 

30 


tatyAna  borisovna 


then  '?  His  Illustrious  Ilif^hness  the  late  Prince 
INIikhailo  llarionnvitch  Golenishshtcheff-Kutu- 
zoff-Sniolensky,  with  the  help  of  (xod,  Mas 
pleased  to  expel  Boiui})artishka  from  the  con- 
fines of  Russia.  On  that  occasion,  also,  the  hal- 
lad  was  composed :  '  Bonaparte  does  n't  feel  like 

dancing,  he  has  lost  his  garters/ Dost 

understand?  He  freed  thy  fatherland." — "  And 
what  care  I  for  that?  " — "  Akh,  thou  stupid  boy, 
thou  stupid!  Why,  if  the  most  illustrious  Prince 
Mikhailo  Ilarionovitch  had  not  chased  out  Bona- 
partishka,  some  '  mossoo '  or  other  would  be 
whacking  thee  over  the  head  with  a  stick,  seest 
thou?  He  would  come  up  to  thee  and  say: 
'  Coman  vu  porte  vu?' — and  whack,  whack!" — 
"  Then  I  'd  hit  him  in  the  belly  with  my  fist." — 
"  And  he  'd  say  to  thee:  '  Bonzhur,  vene  isi,' — and 
he  'd  grab  thee  by  the  hair,  by  the  hair!  "— "  And 
I  'd  stamp  on  his  feet,  his  feet,  his  knobby  feet." 

— "  That 's  so,  they  do  have  knobby  feet 

Well,  and  when  he  began  to  bind  thy  arms,  what 
wouldst  thou  do  then?" — "  I  wouldn't  let  him: 
I  'd  call  Mikhei  the  coachman  to  my  assis- 
tance."— "  And  dost  thou  think,  Vasya,  that  the 
Frenchman  could  not  overpower  Mikhei?  " — 
"Overpower  him,  indeed!  just  see  how  robust 
Mikhei  is!" — "Well,  and  what  would  you  two 
do  to  him?  " — "  We  'd  beat  him  on  his  back, — yes, 
on  his  back." — "And  he'd  begin  to  shriek: 
'Pardon!  pardon,   pardon,   sivuplay!'" — "And 

31 


MKMOTllS   OF  A    SPOKTSAIAX 

we'd  .say  to  liiin:  '  X«^  sivuplay  tor  thee,  thou 
(iMiniiecl  Kreiiehiiiaii!  .  .  .' "  "Brave  lad,  Vasyal 
Come,  now,  shout:  '  Honapartishka  is  a  bri- 
^rand! '  "— "  Then  ilo  tliou  give  me  some  sugar!  " 
— "  \\'hat  a  boy!  "   .   .   .   . 

Tatvana  Horisovna  eonsorts  very  little  with 
till-  landed  proprietors:  they  go  to  her  reluc- 
tantly, and  she  does  not  know  how  to  entertain 
tlKiii;  she  falls  into  a  doze  at  the  noise  of  their 
remarks,  gives  a  start,  makes  an  effort  to  open 
lier  eyes,  and  again  relapses  into  slumber.  In 
general,  Tatyana  Borisovna  is  not  fond  of  wo- 
men. ( )ne  of  her  friends,  a  tine,  peaceable  yovmg 
man.  had  a  sister,  an  old  maid  of  eight  and  thirty 
years  and  a  half,  the  kindest  of  beings,  but  un- 
natural, affected,  and  given  to  enthusiasms.  Her 
brother  freciuently  narrated  to  her  anecdotes  of 
tlieir  neighbour.  One  fine  morning,  my  old 
maid,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  ordered 
her  horse  to  l)e  saddled,  and  set  out  to  see  Ta- 
tyana l^)ri.sovna.  In  her  long  habit,  with  her  hat 
on  iier  head  and  a  green  veil  and  curls  floating, 
she  entered  the  anteroom,  and  dodging  tlie  panic- 
stricken  Vasya,  wlio  took  her  for  a  water-nymph, 
slie  ran  into  tlie  drawing-room.  Tatyana  Bori- 
sovna was  frightened,  and  tried  to  rise,  but  her 
limbs  gave  way  beneath  her. — "  Tatyana  Bori- 
sovna,"— began  the  visitor,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty, 
"excuse  my  l)()l(lne.ss;  I  am  the  sister  of  your 
friend,    Alexyei    Nikolaevitch    K  *  *  *,   and   I 

32 


TATYANA  liOKlSOVNA 

have  heard  so  mueh  about  you  iVoni  him,  tluit  I 
made  u})  my  mind  to  become  accjuainted  with 
you." — "  1  feel  greatly  honoured,"  murmured  the 
astounded  hostess.  The  visitor  threw  off  her  hat, 
shook  back  her  curls,  seated  herself  beside  Ta- 
tyiina  Borisovna,  and  took  her  hand.  ..."  So, 
this  is  she," — she  began  in  a  pensive,  touched 
voice: — "this  is  that  good,  serene,  noble,  holy 
being!  This  is  she!  this  simple  and,  at  the  same 
time,  profound  woman!  How  glad  I  am,  how 
glad  I  am!  How  we  shall  love  each  other!  I 
shall  rest,  at  last.  .  .  .  She  is  exactly  as  I  have 
pictured  her  to  myself," — she  added,  in  a  whis- 
per, boring  her  eyes  into  the  eyes  of  Tatyana 
Borisovna.  "  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me, 
will  you,  my  kind,  my  good  one!  " — "  Really,  I 

am  very  glad Would  not  you  like  some 

tea?  " — The  visitor  smiled  condescendingly. 

"  Wie  tcalir,  uie  unreflccMrt/' — she  whispered, 
as  though  to  herself.  "  Permit  me  to  embrace 
you,  my  dear." 

The  old  maid  sat  for  three  hours  with  Tatyana 
Borisovna,  and  never  held  her  peace  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  tried  to  expound  to  her  new  acquain- 
tance her  own  significance.  .  .  .  Immediately  after 
the  departure  of  the  unexpected  visitor,  the  poor 
gentlewoman  betook  herself  to  the  bath,  drank 
a  dose  of  linden-flower  tea,  and  went  to  bed. 
But  on  the  following  day,  the  old  maid  returned, 
sat  four  hours,  and  withdrew  promising  to  visit 

33 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

Tatyaiia  liorisovna  every  day.  Vou  will  please 
tt>  observe,  that  slie  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to 
develop,  to  i)iit  the  tinisliing  touches  to  the  edu- 
eati«)n  of  sneh  a  lieli  nature,  as  she  expressed 
herself;  and.  jjiohahly,  she  would  have  com- 
pletely exhausted  it  in  the  end,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  fact  that,  in  the  first  place,  she  got 
"  utterly  "  disenchanted  as  to  her  brother's  friend 
in  the  course  of  a  fortnight;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  if  she  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  a  passing 
student,  with  whom  she  instantly  entered  into  an 
active  and  ardent  correspondence;  in  her  epistles, 
as  was  fitting,  she  blessed  him  for  a  holy  and  most 
beautiful  life,  oft'ered  "  the  whole  of  herself  "  as 
a  sacrifice,  demanded  only  the  name  of  sister, 
plunged  into  descri])tions  of  nature,  alluded  to 
(ioethe,  Schiller,  Eettina,  and  (German  philoso- 
phy,— and.  at  last,  drove  the  poor  young  man  to 
grim  despair.  But  youth  asserted  its  rights:  one 
fine  morning,  he  awoke  with  such  exasperated 
hatred  for  his  "  sister  and  best  friend,"  that  he 
came  near  knocking  his  valet  down,  in  the  heat  of 
passion,  and,  for  a  long  time,  all  but  bit  at  the 
slightest  hint  about  exalted  and  disinterested 
love.  .  .  .  Rut,  from  that  time  forth  Tatyana 
Rorisovna  began  more  than  ever  to  avoid  inti- 
macy with  her  neighbours. 

Alas!  nothing  is  stable  upon  earth.  Every- 
thing whieh  I  have  related  concerninii-  mv  kind 
gentlewoman's  mode  of  life  is  a  thing  of  the 

34 


TATYANA  BORISOVNA 

past;  the  tranquillity  which  reigned  in  her  house 
has  heen  destroyed  forever.  For  more  than  a 
year  now,  her  nephew,  an  artist  from  Peters- 
burg, has  been  living  with  her.  This  is  the  way 
it  came  about. 

Eight  years  ago,  there  hved  with  Tatyana 
Eorfsovna  a  boy  of  twelve,  orphaned  of  father 
and  mother,  Andriiisha,  the  son  of  her  deceased 
brother.  Andriiisha  had  large,  bright,  humid 
eyes,  a  tiny  mouth,  a  regular  nose,  and  a  very 
handsome,  lofty  brow.  He  spoke  in  a  soft,  sweet 
voice,  kept  himself  tidy  and  decorous,  was  cordial 
and  attentive  to  visitors,  and  kissed  his  aunt's 
hand  with  an  orphan's  sensibility.  No  sooner 
would  you  make  your  appearance  than,  lo  and 
behold,  he  was  ali'eady  bringing  you  an  arm- 
chair. He  never  played  any  pranks  at  all;  he 
never  made  any  noise;  he  would  sit  by  himself 
in  a  corner,  over  his  book,  so  modestly  and  sub- 
missively, and  not  even  lean  against  the  back  of 
the  chair.  A  visitor  would  enter, — my  Andri- 
iisha would  rise,  smile  coiu'teously,  and  flush ;  the 
visitor  would  leave  the  room; — he  w^ould  seat 
himself  again,  pull  a  little  brush  and  mirror  from 
his  pocket,  and  arrange  his  hair.  He  had  felt  an 
inclination  for  drawing  from  his  earliest  years. 
If  a  scrap  of  j)aper  fell  into  his  hands,  he  would 
immediately  ask  Agafya  the  housekeeper  for  her 
scissors,  carefully  cut  from  the  paper  a  regular 
square,  draw  a  narrow  frame  around  it,  and  set 

35 


MKMOIHS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

to  work:  lie  unuld  draw  an  vyv  w  illi  a  huge  pupil, 
or  a  (iivrian  ?><)sc,  or  a  house  with  a  ehininey  and 
smoke  in  the  form  of  a  serew,  a  dog  "  en  face," 
resenihhng  a  htiieh.  a  tree  with  two  doves,  and 
sitrn  it:  "Drawn  1)V  .Vndrei  Bvelovzoroff,  on 
sueh  a  date,  of  such  a  year,  village  of  ^laliya 
liryki."  lie  toiled  with  particular  zeal,  for  a 
coui)le  of  weeks  before  Tatyana  Borisovna's 
name-day,'  was  the  first  to  present  himself  to 
congratulate  her,  and  offered  a  roll  tied  up  with 
a  j)iiik  lihhon.  .  Tatyana  Eorisovna  kissed  her 
nephew  on  the  brow,  and  untied  the  knot;  the  roll 
spread  out,  and  disclosed  to  the  curious  view  of 
the  sj)ectator  a  round  temple  with  an  altar  in 
the  middle,  boldly  washed  in  in  India  ink;  on  the 
altar  lay  a  flaming  heart  and  a  w'reath,  and  above, 
on  an  undulating  scroll,  in  2)lain  letters,  stood 
written:  "  To  my  aunt  and  l/cnefactress  Tatyana 
liorfsovna  Hogdanoff,  from  her  res])ectful  and 
loving  nephew,  in  token  of  the  most  profound 
devotion."  Tatyana  Borisovna  kissed  him  again 
and  gave  liim  a  ruble.  J^ut  she  felt  no  great  af- 
fection for  him:  Andriusha's  obsecpiiousness  did 
not  altogether  please  her.  In  the  meantime,  An- 
driusha  was  growing  up;  Tatyana  Borisovna  was 
beginning  to  grow  anxious  as  to  his  future.  An 
unexj)ected  event  rescued  her  from  her  di- 
lemma. .  .  . 

''lilt-   iiaiiio-diiy— llie   (l;.y   of    the    Saint    after    whom    a   person    is 
named     Ls   eelehraled    instead    of   tl;-    hiiihday.— Tkanslator. 

36 


TATYANA   RORISOVNA 

To  wit:  one  day,  eight  years  ago,  a  certain 
Mr.  15ene\'olensky,  a  collegiate  assessor  ^  arid 
cavalier  of  an  order,  dropped  in  to  call.  Mr. 
Benevolenskv  had  formerly  been  in  the  service 
in  the  neighbouring  county  town,  and  had  been 
an  assiduous  visitor  at  Tatyana  Borisovna's ;  he 
had  removed  to  Petersburg,  had  entered  a  min- 
istry, had  attained  to  a  fairly  important  post,  and 
during  one  of  his  frequent  trips  on  government 
business  he  had  recalled  his  old  friend,  and 
dropj^ed  in  to  see  her,  with  the  intention  of  res1>- 
ing  for  a  couple  of  days  from  the  cares  of  the 
service,  "  in  the  lap  of  rustic  tranquillity."  Ta- 
tyana Borisovna  received  him  with  her  habitual 
cordiality,  and  Mr.  Benevolensky  ....  But 
before  we  go  on  with  om*  story,  permit  us,  dear 
reader,  to  make  you  acquainted  with  this  new 
person. 

]Mr.  Benevolensky  was  a  rather  fat  man,  of 
medium  height,  soft  in  aspect,  with  small,  short 
feet,  and  plump  little  hands;  he  wore  a  capacious 
and  extremely  neat  swallow-tailed  coat,  a  tall 
and  broad  neckerchief,  snow-white  linen,  a  gold 
chain  on  his  silk  waistcoat,  a  ring  with  a  stone 
on  his  forefinger,  and  a  blond  wig;  he  talked 
persuasively  and  gently,  walked  noiselessly, 
smiled  pleasantly,  rolled  his  eyes  about  pleas- 

^  Grade  No.  8,  corresponding  to  the  (former)  title  of  Major, 
in  Peter  the  Great's  famous  Table  of  RaniiS.  There  are  fourteen 
grades  in  all. — Translator. 

37 


.MKMOIKS   Oi'   A    srOUTSMAN 

ant  In  ,  plun^v*!  liis  diiii  into  his  neckerchief 
pleaNiintlv:  altooetlier,  lie  was  a  pleasant  man. 
The  Lord  h;nl  also  endowed  him  with  the  kindest 
(.f  hearts:  lie  wept  and  went  into  raptures  easily; 
ahove  all,  he  Innned  with  disinterested  ardour 
lor  art,  and  this  ardour  was  genuinely  disin- 
teresteil.  for,  ji'  the  truth  must  he  told,  it  was  pre- 
cisely in  the  matter  of  art  that  Mr.  Benevolensky 
had  positively  no  understanding  whatsoever. 
One  even  marvelled  whence,  hy  virtue  of  what 
mysterious  and  incomprehensihle  laws,  he  had 
l>ecome  infected  with  that  passion.     Apparently, 

he  was  a  sedate,  even  a  commonplace  man 

howcN  er,  there  are  quite  a  good  many  sucli  people 
among  us  in  Uussia. 

Love  for  art  and  artists  imparts  to  these  peo- 
j)lr  an  inexplieahle  mawkishness;  it  is  torture  to 
know  them,  to  converse  with  them:  they  are  regu- 
lai-  hloekheads  smeared  with  honey.  For  exam- 
\Av.  they  never  call  Raphael  Raphael,  or  Correg- 
u:'u)  CorreMiiio:  thev  sav,  "  the  divine  Sanzio,  the 
ineomj)arahle  de  Allegris,"  and  invariahly  they 
jironounce  their  o's  hroadly.  They  laud  every 
homespun,  conceited,  over-elaborated  and  medi- 
ocre talent  as  a  genius,  or,  to  be  more  accurate, 
"janius";  the  blue  sky  of  Italy,  the  southern 
lemon,  the  perfumed  gales  of  the  shores  of  the 
Hrenta,  are  eternally  on  their  lips.  "  Kkh, 
\"anya,  Viinya,"  or  "  Kkh,  Sasha,  Siisha,"  they 
say  to  each  other  with  ecstasy,  "  we  ought  to  go 

38 


TATYANA   lUJRiSOVNA 

to  the  south,  to  the  southland  .  .  .  for  you  and  I 
are  Greeks  in  spirit,  ancient  Crreeks! "  They 
may  be  observed  at  exhi})itions,  in  front  of  the 
productions  of  certain  Russian  painters.  (We 
must  remark,  that  the  majority  of  these  gen- 
tlemen are  frightfully  patriotic.)  First  they 
retreat  a  pace,  and  loll  their  heads  on  one  side, 
then  they  approach  the  picture  again;  their  little 
eyes  become  suffused  with  an  oily  moisture.  . 
"  Phew,  O  my  Ciod," — they  say,  at  last,  in  a  voice 
broken  with  emotion, — "  what  soul,  what  soul! 
What  heart,  what  heart!  how  much  soul  he  has 
put  into  it!  a  vast  amount  of  soul!  ....  And 
how  it  is  conceived !  conceived  in  a  masterly  man- 
ner! " — And  what  pictures  they  have  in  their 
own  drawing-rooms!  What  artists  frequent 
them  of  an  evening,  drink  their  tea,  listen  to  their 
conversation!  AVhat  perspective  views  of  their 
own  rooms  they  offer  them,  with  a  brush  in  the 
right  foreground,  a  pile  of  dirt  on  the  polished 
floor,  a  yellow  samovar  on  a  table  by  the  window, 
and  the  master  of  the  house  himself,  in  dressing- 
gown  and  skull-cap,  with  a  brilliant  spot  of  light 
on  his  cheek!  What  long-haired  nurslings  of 
the  JNIuses,  with  feverishly-scornful  smile,  visit 
them!  What  pale-green  young  ladies  squeal  at 
their  pianos!  For  that  is  the  established  order  of 
things  with  us  in  Russia:  a  man  cannot  devote 
himself  to  one  art  alone — -give  him  all!  Hence, 
it  is  not  in  the  least  surprising,  that  these  gentle- 

39 


ME>rOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

iiien-aniatcurs  also  (lisi)lay  great  patronage  to 
Kiissiaii  literature,  especially  to  draniatie  litera- 
ture. .  .  .  'IMk  ■  .laeol)  Saupasaros  "  are  written 
lor  tlieiii:  the  eoiiHiet  of  unrecognised  talent  with 
peoj)le,  with  the  whole  world,  which  has  been  de- 
j)ieted  a  thousand  times,  shakes  them  to  the  very 
lM)ttoni  of  the  soul.   .   .   . 

On  the  day  following  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Benevolensky,  Tatyana  Eorisovna,  at  tea,  com- 
nianded  her  nephew  to  show  the  visitor  his 
drawiuiis.  "  ^Vnd  dcx^s  yoin*  relative  draw?" 
ejaculated  Mr.  Eenevolenskv,  not  without  sur- 
prise,  and  turned  sympathetically  to  Andrinsha. 
"  C'ertainl\'  he  does!  " — said  Tatyana  Borisovna: 
— "he's  so  fond  of  it!  and  he  does  it  all  alone, 
without  anv  teacher,  von  know." — "  Aldi,  show 
me.  show  me," — interposed  ^Nlr.  Benevolensk5\ 
y\ndriusha,  blushing  and  smiling,  brought  his 
sketch-book  to  the  visitor.  Mr.  Benevolenskj'^ 
l)egan,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  to  turn  over 
the  lea\es.  "  (rOod,  young  man," — he  said  at 
last: — "  Good,  very  good."  And  he  stroked 
Andiiiisha's  head.  iVndriusha  kissed  his  hand  on 
the  Hy. —  'Just  see,  what  talent! I  con- 
gratulate you,  Tatyana  Borisovna,  I  congratu- 
late you!"— "But  what  is  to  be  done,  Piotr 
Mikhailitch^  I  cannot  find  any  teacher  for  him 
here.  It  costs  too  much  to  have  one  come  from 
town;  there  is  an  artist  at  my  neighbours',  the 
Artamonofi's,  and  a  capital  one  he  is,  they  say, 

40 


TATYANA  BORISOVNA 

but  the  lady  forbids  liini  to  give  lessons  to 
outsiders.  She  says  he  will  s|)oil  liis  taste." — 
"  H'm," — ejaculated  Mr.  Beuevolensky,  as  he 
fell  to  meditating,  and  east  sidelong  glances  at 
Andriusha.  "  Well,  we  will  talk  the  matter 
over," — he  suddenly  added,  rubbing  his  hands. 
That  same  day  he  requested  permission  of  Ta- 
tyana  Borisovna  to  have  a  private  conversation 
wnth  lier.  They  locked  themselves  up.  Half  an 
hour  later,  they  called  Andriusha.  Andriusha 
entered.  INIr.  Benevolensky  was  standing  at  the 
window,  with  his  face  slightly  flushed  and  his  eyes 
beaming.  Tatyana  Borisovna  was  sitting  in  one 
corner,  and  wiping  away  her  tears. — "  Well,  An- 
driusha,"— she  began  at  last: — "thank  Piotr 
Mikhailitch:  he  is  going  to  take  thee  under  his 
charge,  and  carry  thee  off  to  Petersburg."  An- 
driusha was  fairly  petrified  where  he  stood. — 
"  Tell  me  frankly," — began  Mr.  Benevolensky, 
in  a  voice  permeated  with  dignity  and  condescen- 
sion:— "  Do  you  wish  to  become  an  artist,  young 
man,  do  you  feel  a  sacred  vocation  for  art?  " — 
"  I  do  want  to  be  an  artist,  Piotr  Mikhailitch," — 
affirmed  Andriusha,  tremulously. — "  In  that 
case,  I  am  very  glad.  Of  course," — pursued  Mr. 
Benevolensky, — "  you  will  find  it  hard  to  part 
from  your  respected  aunt ;  you  must  feel  the  live- 
liest gratitude  to  lier." — "  I  adore  my  aunty," — 
Andriusha  interrupted  him,  blinking  his  eyes. — 
"  Of  course,  of  course,  that  is  very  natural  and 

41 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

does  you  imit'li  lionnur:  ])ut.  on  the  other  hand, 
just  iina«iiiR',  wliat  joy,  in  course  of  time  .... 
your  successes.  .  ."— "  Enibnice  me,  Andri- 
lisha,"— murmured  the  kind  hidy.  Andriusha 
Huinr  liiniself  on  lier  neck. — "  Well,  and  now 
thank  thy  benefactor.  .  .  ."  Andriusha  em- 
braced Mr.  Jicnevolensky's  paunch,  raised  him- 
self on  tiptoe,  and  so  managed  to  grasp  his  hand, 
which  the  benefactor,  truth  to  tell,  accepted,  yet 
made  no  great  haste  to  accept.  .  .  .  The  child 
must  l)e  soothed,  satisfied, — well,  and  one  may 
indukre  one's  self  also.  Two  days  later  Mr.  Be- 
nevolensky  departed,  and  carried  with  him  his 
new  protege. 

During  the  first  three  years  of  his  absence, 
Andriusha  wrote  with  tolerable  frequency,  some- 
times enclosing  drawings  in  his  letters.  Mr. 
Iknevolensky  occasionally  added  also  a  few 
words  from  himself,  chiefly  of  apj^roval;  then 
the  letters  became  more  and  more  infrequent, 
and,  at  last,  ceased  altogether.  Tatyana  Bori- 
sovna's  nephew  maintained  silence  for  a  whole 
yeai':  slie  had  already  begun  to  worry,  when, 
suddeidy,  she  received  a  note  whose  contents 
were  as  follows: 

"  Dkar  Aunty! 

"  Two  (lays  ago,  Piotr  ^Nlikliaflovitch,  my  benefactor, 
(lied.  A  severe  shock  of  paralysis  has  deprived  me  of 
my  last  support.     Of  course,  I  am  already  twenty  years 

42 


TATYANA  BORISOVNA 

of  age ;  in  the  course  of  seven  years  I  have  made  notable 
progress ;  I  have  strong  hopes  of  my  talent  and  can  earn 
my  living* by  means  of  it;  I  am  not  downcast,  but,  nev- 
ertheless, if  you  can,  send  me,  for  present  expenses,  two 
hundred  and  fifty  rubles.  I  kiss  your  hands,  and  re- 
main,"— and  so  forth. 

Tatyiina  Borisovna  sent  her  nephew  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  rubles.  Two  months  later,  he 
demanded  some  more;  she  gathered  together  her 
last  resources,  and  sent  again.  Six  weeks  had 
not  elapsed  after  the  last  despatch,  when  he 
asked  for  the  third  time,  nominally  for  the  pur- 
pose of  purchasing  paints  for  a  portrait  which 
a  Princess  Tertereshneff  had  ordered  from  him. 
Tatyana  Borisovna  refused.  "  In  that  case,"  he 
wrote  to  her,  "  I  intend  to  come  to  you,  in  the 
country,  to  recuperate  my  health."  And,  in  fact, 
in  the  month  of  INI  ay  of  that  same  year,  Andri- 
lisha  retiu'ned  to  INIaliya  Bryki. 
^  At  first,  Tatyana  Borisovna  did  not  recognise 
him.  From  his  letters,  she  had  expected  a  thin 
and  sickly  man,  but  she  beheld  a  broad-shoul- 
dered, stout  young  fellow,  with  a  broad,  red  face 
and  curly,  greasy  hair.  The  pale,  slender  An- 
driusha  had  been  converted  into  sturdy  Andrei 
IvanofF  ByelovzorofF.  His  external  appear- 
ance was  not  the  only  thing  in  him  which  had 
undergone  a  change.  The  sensitive  shyness,  the 
caution  and  neatness  of  former  years,  Iiad  been 
replaced  by  a  careless  swagger,   by  intolerable 

43 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

slovenliness:  lie  swayed  to  rii^lit  and  left  as  he 
walked,  (lung  liiinsell'  into  arni-ehairs,  sprawled 
over  the  table,  lolled,  yawned  to  the  fifll  extent 
of  liis  jaws,  and  behaved  imjjudently  to  his  aunt 
and  the  servants, — as  much  as  to  say:  "  I  'm  an 
artist,  a  free  kazjik!    1  "11  show'  you  what  stuff 
I  ni  made  of!  "    For  whole  days  together,   he 
would  not  take  a  brush  in  his  hand;  when  the  so- 
called  inspiration  came  upon  him,  he  w^ould  be- 
have as  wildly  as  though  he  were  intoxicated, 
painfullv,  awkwardly,  noisily;  his  cheeks  would 
burn  w  ith  a  coarse  flush,  his  eyes  w^ould  grow  in- 
ebriated: he  would  set  to  prating  about  his  tal- 
ent, his  successes,  of  how  he  was  deyeloping  and 
advancing.  .  .  .  But,    as    a    matter    of    fact,    it 
turned  out  that  his  gift  barely  sufficed  for  tol- 
ei-ably  fair  ])etty  portraits.     He  was  an  utter  ig- 
iioiaiiius,  lie  had  read  nothing;  and  wlw  should 
an  artist  read  ^    Nature,  freedom,  poetry, — those 
are  his  elements.    So,  shake  thy  curls,  and  chatter 
away  volubly,  and  inhale  Zhukoff  >  with  frenzy! 
Russian  swagger  is  a  good  thing,  but  it  is  not 
becoming   to   many;   and    talentless   second-rate 
PolezluieiTs  are  intolerable.     Our  Andrei  lyan- 
iteh   continued   to   live   at   his   aunt's:   evidently, 
gratuitous  food   was  to  his  taste.      He  inspired 
visitors  with  deadly  ennui.     He  would  seat  him- 
self at  the  piano  (Tatyana  Bdrisovna  had  set  up 
a  piano  also)    and  begin  to  pick  out  with  one 

'  The  coarsest  sort  of  tobacco.— Translatoe. 

44 


TATYANA  BORISOVNA 

finger  "  Tlie  dashing  Troiku"';  he  would  strike 
chords,  and  thump  tlie  keys;  for  hours  at  a 
stretch  he  would  howl  ^^arlanloff's  romances 
"  The  solitary  Pine,"  or  "  No,  Doctor,  no,  do 
not  come,"  and  the  fat  would  close  over  his  eyes, 

and  his  cheeks  would  sliine  like  a  drum 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  would  thunder:  "  Be- 
gone,  ye  tumults  of  passion!"  ....  And  Ta- 
tyana  Borisovna  would  fairly  jump  in  dismay. 
"  'T  is  extraordinary," — she  remarked  to  me 
one  day, — "  what  songs  are  composed  nowadays, 
— they  are  all  so  despairing,  somehow;  in  my 
day,  they  used  to  compose  a  different  sort:  there 
were  sad  ones  then  too,  but  it  was  always  agreea- 
ble to  listen  to  them For  example : 

"  Come,  come  to  me  in  the  meadow, 
Where  I  wait  for  thee  in  vain ; 
Come,  come  to  me  in  the  meadow. 
Where  my  tears  flow  hour  after  liour  .... 
Alas,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  in  the  meadow, 
But  then  't  will  be  too  late,  dear  friend !  " 

Tatyana  Borisovna  smiled  guilefully. 

"  '  I  shall  suf-fer,  I  shall  suf-fer,'  "  howled  her 
nephew  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"  Stop  that,  Andriuslia!  " 

"  '  My  soul  is  lan-guishing  in  part-mg,'  "  con- 
tinued the  irrepressible  singer. 

Tatyana  Borisovna  shook  her  head. 

45 


MEMOIHS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

'  ( )kli.  tliosf  artists! '".... 

A  WAV  lias  j)assc'(l  since  \hv\\.  Byelovzoroff  is 
still  li\  iii^-  N\  itii  liis  amit,  and  still  preparing  to  go 
to  I'ett'ishnig.  lit  has  become  broader  than  he 
is  Ion;*  in  the  conntrv.  His  annt — who  would 
have  thought  it  f--is  perfectly  devoted  to  him,  and 
the  young  girls  of  the  neighbourhood  fall  in  love 
with  him.   .   .   . 

Many  of  Tatyana  Borisovna's  former  acquahi- 
tances  have  ceased  to  visit  her. 


46 


Ill 

DEATH 

I  HA>'E  a  neighbour,  a  young  agriculturist  and 
young  spoi'tsman.  One  fine  morning  I  dropped 
in  on  him  for  a  call,  on  horseback,  with  the  sug- 
gestion that  we  should  set  out  together  in  quest 
of  woodcock.  He  consented.  "  Only,"  said  he, 
"  let  us  go  through  my  tract  of  second  growth  of 
trees  to  the  Zusha;  I  '11  take  a  look  at  Tchaply- 
gino  by  the  way.  Do  you  know  my  oak  forest? 
It  is  being  felled." — "Come  on."^ — He  ordered  his 
horse  to  be  saddled,  donned  a  green  surtout  with 
bronze  buttons  representing  boars'  heads,  a  game- 
bag  embroidered  in  worsted,  and  a  silver  flask, 
threw  over  his  shoulder  a  rather  new  French  gun, 
turned  himself  about,  not  without  pleasure,  in 
front  of  the  mirror,  and  called  his  dog  Esperance, 
which  had  been  presented  him  by  his  cousin,  an 
old  maid  with  an  excellent  heart,  but  without  any 
hair.  We  set  out.  JNIy  neighbour  took  with  him 
the  village  policeman  Arkhip,  a  fat  and  ex- 
tremely short  peasant  with  a  square  face  and 
cheek-bones  of  antediluvian  development,  and  a 
recently-engaged  superintendent  from  the  Baltic 

47 


MK.MOIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

provimrs,  a  young  fellow  of  nineteen  years,  thin, 
lair-liaiivtl,   niok-eyed,   with   sloping   shoulders, 
and  a  long  neck,  Mr.  Gottlieb  von  der  Koch.    ]My 
neighbour  hiniscH"  had  entered  into  possessioH  of 
his  estate  not  long  before.     It  had  come  to  him 
by  inheritance  from  his  aunt,  the  wife  of  Coun- 
cillor of  State  '  Kardon-Kataeff,  a  remarkably 
la  I  woman,  wlio,  even  when  she  was  lying  in  bed, 
groaned   in  a   prolonged  and  plaintive  manner. 
\Vc  rode  into  the  tract  of  second  growth  trees. 
■  WnW  for  me  here,  in  the  glade,"  said  Ardalion 
Mikhailitcli  (my  neighbour),  turning  to  his  satel- 
lites.   The  German  bowed,  slipped  off  his  horse, 
pulled  a  small  book  from  his  pocket,  apparently  a 
romance  ])y  Johann  Schopenhauer,  and  sat  down 
under  a  bush;  iVrkbip  remained  in  the  sun,  and 
never  moved  for  the  space  of  an  hour.    We  made 
a  circuit  through  the  bushes,  and  found  not  a  sin- 
gle covey.    Ardalion  ^likhailitch  announced  that 
he  intended  to  !)etake  himself  to  the  forest.     For 
some  reason  or  other,  I  myself  had  no  faith  in  the 
success  of  our  hunt  on  that  day:  I  wended  my 
way  after  him.     The  German  noted  his  page, 
rose,  put  the  book  in  his  pocket,  and  mounted,  not 
without  difhculty,  liis  bob-tailed,  imperfect  mare, 
uhich  s(iuealed  and  kicked  out  at  the  slightest 
touch:  Arkhip  gave  a  start,  jerked  both  reins  si- 
multaneously, flung  his  feet  about,  and,  at  last, 

'  The  fifth  grade  from  tlie  top,  in  Peter  the  Great's  Table  of 
Hanks. — Translator. 

48 


DEATH 

got  his  stupefied  and  spiritless  little  nag  to  move 
from  the  spot.    We  rode  off. 

Ardalion  ^Nlikhailitch's  forest  had  been  fa- 
miliar to  me  from  my  childhood.  In  company 
with  my  French  tutor,  ]M — r.  Desire  Fleury,  the 
kindest  of  men  (who,  nevertheless,  came  near 
ruining  my  health  for  life,  by  making  me  drink 
De  Roy's  potion  of  an  evening),  I  frequently 
walked  to  Tchaplygino.  The  entire  forest  con- 
sisted of  about  two  or  three  hundred  enormous 
oak-trees  and  maples.  Their  stately,  mighty 
boles  darkled  magnificently  against  the  translu- 
cent golden-green  of  the  hickories  and  mountain- 
ashes;  they  rose  higher,  outlined  themselves 
gracefully  against  the  clear  azure,  and  there,  at 
last,  flung  wide  the  canopy  of  their  broad, 
gnarled  boughs;  hawks,  honey-buzzards,  kestrels 
soared  whistling  over  the  motionless  crests, 
spotted  woodpeckers  tapped  vigorously  on  the 
thick  bark ;  the  resonant  song  of  the  black  thrush 
suddenly  rang  forth  in  the  dense  foliage,  follow- 
ing the  variable  cry  of  the  oriole ;  down  below,  in 
the  bushes,  hedge-sparrows,  finches,  and  pewits 
twittered  and  warbled ;  chaffinches  hopped  briskly 
along  the  paths ;  a  white  hare  stole  along  the  edge 
of  the  woods,  cautiously  "limping";  a  reddish- 
brown  squirrel  leaped  in  an  offhand  way  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  suddenly  sat  down,  with  tail 
aloft,  over  our  heads.  In  the  grass,  near  the  tall 
ant-hills,  beneath  the  liglit  shadow  of  the  deeply 

49 


.MK.MOllJS   or   A    SPORTSMAN 

dented  ht-iiitifiil  fronds  of  the  ferns,  violets  and 
lilies  of  the  valley  l)loonied,  and  mushrooms  of 
various  sorts,  and  erimson  fly-agaric  orevv;  in 
the  httle  ^la(ks.  amid  the  hushes,  strawherries 
"learned  red.  .  .  And  what  shade  there  was  in 
the  forest!  In  the  \ ery  height  of  the  heat,  at 
noonday,  it  was  perfect  night:  silence,  perfume, 
coolness.  .  .  .  Cheerfully  had  I  passed  the  time 
in  Tehaplygino,  and  therefore,  I  confess,  it  was 
not  without  a  feeling  of  sadness  that  I  now  rode 
into  the  forest  which  was  but  too  familiar  to  me. 
The  pernicious,  snowdess  winter  of  1840  had  not 
spared  my  old  friends,  the  oaks  and  maples;  with- 
ered, stripped  hare,  here  and  there  covered  with 
consunij)ti\e  foliage,  they  drooped  mournfully 
o\ci-  the  young  coppice  which  had  "  taken  their 
place  hut  not  I'eplaced  them."  '  Some,  still 
clothed  with  leaves  helow,  reared  their  lifeless, 
hroken  l)ougiis  aloft  as  though  with  reproach  and 
despaii-:  in  the  case  of  others,  from  the  foliage, 
still  tolerahly  dense,  though  not  abundant,  not 
copious  as  of  yore,  thick,  dry,  dead  branches  pro- 
truded; the  hark  of  others  had  fallen  at  a  dis- 

'  III  tlu'  year  IS+O,  althougli  tlicre  was  a  most  rigorous  frost,  no 
Miow  fell  until  the  very  end  of  December;  all  the  crops  were 
frozen,  a!iil  many  fine  oak  forests  were  ruined  by  that  ruthless 
winter.  It  is  difticnlt  to  re})lace  them:  the  productive  power  of 
the  soil  is  evidently  lesseiiinfr;  on  "  forliidden "  winter-killed 
lands  (around  which  tiicre  had  i)een  a  procession  wiiii  holy  j)ic- 
tures),  in  ])lace  of  the  former  noble  trees,  birches  and  aspens  are 
sprinfrinp  up  of  themselves;  and  with  us  no  one  knows  how  to 
propagate  woods  otherwise. 

50 


DEATH 

tance;  others  still  had  rallen  altogether,  and  were 
rotting,  like  corpses,  on  the  ground.  Who  could 
have  foreseen  it — that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
find  shade — shade  in  Tchaplygino — anywhere! 
Well,  I  thought,  as  1  gazed  at  the  moribund 
trees:  I  think  you  must  feel  ashamed  and  bitter. 
....  Koltzoff 's  ^  verse  recurred  to  my  mind : 

"  What  has  become 
Of  the  lofty  speech, 
The  haughty  power, 
Th'  imperial  valour.'' 
Where  now  is  thy 
Green  might  .   .   .   ," 

"  Why  is  this,  Ardalion  Mikhailitch,"^ — I  be- 
gan:— "Why  didn't  you  fell  these  trees  last 
year?  You  will  not  get  a  tenth  j^art  as  much  for 
them  now,  you  see,  as  you  would  have  got  then." 

He  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  VI  better  have  asked  my  aunt; — but  the 
merchants  came,  brought  their  money,  and  im- 
portuned her." 

"  Mein  Gott!" — von  der  Koch  exclaimed  at 
every  step. — "  Vat  a  prank!  vat  a  prank!  ' 

"  What  prank  do  you  mean?  " — remarked  my 
neighbour,  with  a  smile. 

"  Dat  is,  vat  a  peety,  I  meanttt  to  zay."  (It  is 
a  well-known  fact,  that  all  Germans,  when  they 

*Alexyei  ^'asilievitc•h  Koltzoff   (1809-184.2),  a  writer  of  extremely 
original  natiojial  ballads. — Traxslator. 

51 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SPOUTSJMAN 

have  at  last  iiiastcircl  our  lettti-  /.  with  hard  pro- 
muK-iatioii,  throw  rciiiarkahlc  stress  upon  it.') 

1 1  is  rt'«rrt't  was  particuhirly  aroused  by  the 
oaks  uliic-li  l:i\  on  the  onnind, — and,  as  a  mat- 
ter t)!'  f'aet.  any  miller  would  have  paid  a  high 
price  lor  them.  On  the  other  hand,  xVrkhip, 
the  village  polieemaii.  maintained  imperturbable 
e<»mj)osure,  and  did  not  grieve  in  the  least;  on  the 
ct>ntrary.  he  lea})ed  over  them  not  without  satis- 
faetioii.  and  lashed  them  with  his  whip. 

\\'e  w  c  re  making  our  way  to  the  spot  where  the 
fVlliiig  was  ill  ])rogress,  when  suddenly,  follow- 
ing the  noise  ol"  a  falling  tree,  a  shout  and  talking 
rang  out.  and  a  few  moments  later  a  young  peas- 
ant, pale  and  dishevelled,  sprang  out  of  the 
thieket  toward  us. 

'  What  's  the  matter? — Whither  art  thou  nm- 
ning'" — Ardalion  ^likhailitch  asked  him. 

lie  immediately  came  to  a  halt. 

"Akh.  dear  liUle  father,  Ardalion  Mikhai- 
liteh,   i  is  a  catastrophe!  " 

"  \\'hat  has  hai)i)ened?  ". 

"  Maxim,  dear  little  father,  has  been  hurt  by  a 
tree." 

"  I  low  did  that  hapi)en?  .  .  .  Maxim  the 
eniitraetori'  " 

"  Yes,  the  contraetoi-,  dear  little  father.     We 

''I lie  ii.inl  /  is  so  difficult  of  pronunciation  that  some  Russians 
renounce  the  attempt,  and  substitute  oo:  e.g.,  oodshad  (horse)  for 
Uinfuid.  Tlu-  word  lure  is  khnti/rlll.  and  I  have  trebled  the  /  to  rep- 
rt'ient  the  author's  trebled  /.-    Tuanslatob. 

52 


•  DEATH 

began  to  fell  a  maple,  and  he  stood  and  watched. 
.  .  .  He  stood  and  stood,  then  went  off  to  the 
well  for  water :  he  wanted  a  drink,  you  see ;  when, 
an  at  once,  the  maple  began  to  crack  and  fell 
straight  toward  him.  We  shouted  at  him,  '  Run, 
run,  run ! '  .  .  .  He  ought  to  have  leaped  to  one 
side,  but  he  took  and  ran  straight  toward  it  ...  . 
he  must  have  got  frightened.  And  the  ma2:)Ie 
covered  him  with  its  upper  boughs.  And  why  it 
fell  so  suddenly, — the  I^ord  knows.  .  .  .  The 
heart  must  have  been  rotten." 

"  Well,  and  did  it  injure  Maxim?  " 

"  It  did,  dear  little  father." 

"Mortally?" 

"  No,  dear  little  father,  he  is  still  alive, — but 
what  of  that?  it  has  broken  his  arms  and  legs.  So 
I  'm  running  for  Selivestritch, — for  the  doctor." 

Ardalion  Mikhailitch  ordered  the  policeman  to 
gallop  to  the  village  for  Selivestritch,  and  he 
himself  rode  forward  at  a  swift  trot  to  the  clear- 
ing. .  .  .  T  followed  him. 

We  found  poor  INIaxim  on  the  ground.  Half 
a  score  of  peasants  were  standing  around  him. 
We  alighted.  He  was  hardly  groaning;  from 
time  to  time  he  opened  and  dilated  his  eyes,  gazed 
around  him,  as  though  in  surprise,  and  bit  his  lips, 
which  were  turning  blue.  .  .  .  His  chin  quiv- 
ered, his  hair  adhered  to  his  brow,  his  chest 
heaved  unevenly :  he  was  dying.  The  light  shade 
of  a  young  linden  flitted  across  his  face. 

53 


MKMOIKS   or   A    SPORTSMAN 

\\\    hciit  over  liim.     He  recognised  Ardalion 

Mikliailiteli. 

•  Dear  little  lather,"— he  began,  in  a  barely 
audible  tone:— "order  ....  the  priest  ....'. 
to  l.c-  sent  for Tlie  Lord  ....  has  pun- 
ished nie  ....  my  legs  and  arms  are  all 
smashed.  .  .  .  To-day  ....  is  Sunday  .... 
and  I  .  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  .  did 
not  let  tlic  lads  go." 

lie  ceased  speaking.    His  breath  failed  him. 

"  And  give my  money  ....  to  my 

wife  ....  to   my   wife  ....  after  deducting 
....    lor   my   debts.  .  .  Onisim   here   knows 

to  whom  I am  in  debt." 

"  We  have  sent  for  the  doctor,  Maxim," — said 
my  neighbour: — "  perhaps  thou  wilt  not  die  yet." 
He  tried  to  open  his  eyes,  and  raised  his  lids 
and  his  eyebrows  with  the  effort. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  die.  Yonder  ....  yonder  it  is 
tapping,  yonder  it  is,  yonder For- 
give uv\  my  lads,  if  in  anything " 

"  (iod  pardons  thee,  Maxim  Andreitch," — said 
the  peasants  dully  with  one  voice,  and  took  off 
their  caps: — "  do  thou  forgive  us." 

He  .suddenly  shook  his  head  in  a  desperate  way, 
painfiiily  heaved  his  chest,  and  lowered  it  again. 
"  Hui  Ik  cannot  be  left  to  die  here," — ex- 
claimed Ardali('»ii  Mikhailitch: — "fetch  hither  a 
mat  lioiii  tlie  earl  yonder,  my  lads, — let's  carry 
iiiiii  to  the  hospital." 

A  r<iii|i|<   (tf  men  rushed  li    the  cart. 

54 


DEATH 

"  I  bought  a  horse  .  .  .  yesterday," — stam- 
mered the  dying  man, — "  from  P^frim  .... 
Sytchovsky  ....  I  gave  him  ....  a  deposit 

so  tlie  horse  is  mine  ....  give  it  .  .  .  . 

to  my  wife  ....  also " 

They  began  to  lay  him  on  the  mat he 

quivered  all  over  like  a  bird  which  has  been  shot, 
and  straightened  himself 

"  He  is  dead," — muttered  the  peasants. 

We  mounted  our  horses  in  silence,  and  rode 
away. 

The  death  of  poor  INIaxim  caused  me  to  reflect. 
'T  is  wonderful  how  the  Russian  man  dies !  It  is 
impossible  to  call  his  condition  before  the  end  in- 
difference or  stupidity ;  he  dies,  as  though  he  were 
performing  a  rite,  coldly  and  simply. 

Several  years  ago,  in  the  village  of  another  of 
my  neighbours,  a  peasant  was  fatally  burned  in 
the  grain-kiln.  (He  would  have  remained  in  the 
kiln,  but  a  petty  burgher  who  was  passing  by 
dragged  him  out, — he  threw  himself  into  a  vat  of 
water,  and  with  the  force  of  his  flight  he  burst 
open  the  door  beneath  the  flaming  shed. )  I  went 
to  see  him  in  his  cottage.  It  was  dark,  stifling, 
smoky  in  the  cottage.  I  inquired  where  the  sick 
man  was. — "  Why,  yonder,  dear  little  father,  on 
the  oven-bench," — answered  the  grieving  peas- 
ant-wife in  a  sing-song  tone.  I  stepped  up  to 
him — -the  man  was  lying  there,  covered  with  his 
sheepskin  coat,  breathing  heavily. — "  Well,  how 
dost  thou  feel?  " — The  sick  man  fidgeted  about 

55 


MF.ATOTRS   OF  A    SPOirrSMAN 

on  the  oven,  and  tried  to  raise  himself,  but  was 
covered  witli  wouiuls  and  on  the  verge  of  death. 
••  Lie  still,  lie  still,  lie  still.  .  .  .  AVell,  how  goes 
itf  how  art  tlioji?  " — "  Bad,  of  course,"  said  he. — 
"  Art  thou  iu  pain:'  ' — Xo  answer. — "  Dost  thou 
want  anything  f" — Xo  answer. — "Shall  not 
1  send  tliee  some  tea?" — "  It  is  n't  necessary." — 
1  left  him,  and  seated  myself  on  the  bench.  I  sat 
tliere  foi'  a  (juarter  of  an  hour.  1  sat  for  half  an 
hour, — the  silence  of  the  grave  reigned  in  the  cot- 
tage. In  tlie  corner,  at  the  table  beneatli  the  holy 
pictures,'  a  little  maiden  of  five  years  was  hiding, 
and  eating  l)read.  The  mother  shook  her  finger 
at  her  now  and  tlien.  People  were  walking  about, 
j)ounding  and  chattering  in  the  anteroom.  The 
brother's  wife  was  chopping  up  cabbage. — "Hey, 
Aksinya!"^ — said  the  sick  man  at  last. — "What 
is  itf  " — "Give  me  some  kvas." — Aksinya  gave 
him  the  kvas.  Again  silence  reigned.  I  asked  in 
a  wliisper:  "  Has  he  received  the  communion?  " — 
"  Yes." — ^^'ell,  then  evervthing  was  in  due  order: 
he  was  waiting  for  death,  that  was  all.  I  could 
not  endure  it,  and  left  the  house.  .  .  . 

I  remember,  too,  that  1  once  dropped  in  at  the 
liospital  in  the  ^  illage  of  Krasnogorye,  to  see  my 
accjuaintance,  Peasant-Surgeon  Kaj^iton,  an  ar- 
dent sportsman.^ 

'  'Unit  is,  in  the  right-hand  corner,  facing  the  door. — Translator. 

''I'he  ('icrnian  feldnherr,  a  doctor's  assistant;  or  (in  cases  liiic  the 
r.iir  hiT«-  rcfcrn-d  to)  an  indejiendcnt  doctor,  for  tlic  peasants, 
\*ith  mimir  di|ili)tii;i,-  'I'ransi.ator. 

56 


DEATH 

This  hospital  consisted  of  ii  former  wing  of  the 
seigniorial  manor-house;  the  lady-owner  of  the 
estate  herself  had  arranged  it,^ — that  is  to  say,  she 
had  given  orders  that  over  the  door  should  he 
nailed  up  a  hlue  hoard,  with  the  inscription  in 
white  letters,  "  The  Krasnogorye  Hospital,"  and 
she  had  personally  handed  to  Kapiton  a  hand- 
some alhum  wherein  to  jot  down  the  names  of  the 
patients.  On  the  first  page  of  this  alhum  one  of 
the  philanthropic  benefactress's  dish-lickers  and 
servile  fawners  had  traced  the  following  lines : 

"  Dans  ces  beaux  lieux,  ou  regne  I'allegresse, 
Ce  temple  f ut  ouvert  par  la  Bcaute ; 
De  vos  seigneurs  admirez  la  tendresse, 
Bons  habitants  de  Krasnogorie !  " 

And  another  gentleman  had  added  below: 

"  Et  moi  aussi  j'aime  la  nature! 

"Jean  Kobyliatnikoff." 

The  doctor  had  purchased  six  beds  with  his 
own  money,  and  had  started  out,  invoking  a  bless- 
ing on  himself  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  to  heal^ 
God's  people.  There  were,  in  addition  to  himself, 
two  persons  attached  to  the  hospital:  Pavel  the 
carver,  who  was  subject  to  fits  of  insanity,  and  a 
peasant  woman  with  a  withered  hand,  ^Nlelikitrisa, 
who  discharged  the  functions  of  cook.  Both  of 
them  prepared  the  medicines,  and  dried  and  in- 
fused the  herbs;  they  also  restrained  the  fever 

57 


MI.MOlIvS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

patients,     'riit-  crazy  carver  was  gloomy  of  as- 
pect, and  parsimonious  as  to  words:  at  night  he 
was  wont    to  sing  a  song  about   "  Venus  most 
I'air.'atid  to  appeal  to  every  passer-by  for  permis- 
sion to  \\((l  a  certain  maiden,  Malanya  bv  name, 
wlio  liad   long   been   dead.      The  cripj^le-handed 
pcasant-uiie  beat  him,  and  forced  him  to  tend 
her  turkeys.     \\\A\,  then,  I  was  sitting  one  day 
with  Doctor  Kapiton.     We  had  begun  to  chat 
about  our  last  hn?it.  when,  suddenly,  there  drove 
into  tlie  yard  a  |)easant-cart  drawn  by  a  remarka- 
I>ly  lat  grty  horse,  such  as  millers  use.     In  the 
cart  .sal  a  robust  peasant,  in  a  new  long-coat,  and 
with  a  streaky  beard.—"  Iley  there,  Vasily  Dmi- 
tritcli," — sliouted  Kapiton  from  the  window: — 
"  pray  come  in  ...  .  'T  is  the  miller  from  Ly- 
l)(')lf  ■'     he   whispered   to  me.      The   peasant  de- 
.scended.  gruiiting,  from  his  cart,  entered  the  doc- 
tor's room,  sought  the  holy  pictures  with  his  eyes, 
and  crossed  himself.—"  Well,  what  now,  Vasily 
Dmitritch.  what  \s  the  news  ....   But  you  must 
be   ill:   your   face   doesn't   look   right." — "Yes, 
.Kapit('>ti     Timofeeitch,    something's    wrone-." — 
'   W'iiat  s  the  matter  with  you?" — "Why,  this, 
Kaj)iloii  Timofeeitch.     Xot  long  ago,  I  bought 
a  mill-stone  in  town:  well,  1   brought  it  home, 
and  wlien   I  began  to  unload  it  from  the  cart,  I 
strained   inxsrlf.   probably,  or  something  of  the 
sort,  and   tlieic-   was  a  ripping   in   my  belly,  as 
though   something   had    broken    .    .    .    and   ever 

58 


DEATH 

since  then  I  have  heen  aihng  all  the  time.  To- 
day I  even  feel  very  bad." — "  H'm," — said 
Kapiton,  and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff:  "  that  means, 
yon  've  ruptured  yoiu'self .  And  did  this  happen 
to  you  long  since?  "^ — "Why,  ten  days  ago." — 
"Ten  days?"  (The  doctor  inhaled  the  air  through 
his  teeth,  and  shook  liis  head.)  "Allow  me  to 
feel  of  you.  .  .  .  Well,  Vasily  Dmitritch,"  he  said 
at  last:  "  1  'm  sorry  for  thee,  my  dear  fellow,  but 
thou  'rt  in  a  bad  way,  thou  'rt  seriously  ill ;  remain 
here  with  me;  I  will  use  every  effort,  but  I  will 
guarantee  nothing."^ — "  Is  it  as  bad  as  that?  " — 
muttered  the  astonished  miller. — "  Yes,  Vasily 
Dmitritch,  it  is  very  bad ;  you  ought  to  have  come 
to  me  a  couj^le  of  days  earlier,  and  it  would  n't 
have  amounted  to  anything;  I  could  have  relieved 
you  easilj^;  but  now  there  is  inflammation,  that 's 
what 's  the  matter :  the  first  you  know,  gangrene 
will  set  in." — ^"  But  it  cannot  be,  Kapiton  Timo- 
feeitch."— "  But  I  tell  you  it  is  so."— "  But 
why?" — (The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.) 
— "  And  must  I  die  from  that  trifle?  " — "  I  don't 
say  that  ....  but  do  stay  here."  The  peasant 
meditated,  meditated,  stared  at  the  floor,  then  at 
us,  scratched  his  head,  then  caught  up  his  cap. 
"  Whither  art  thou  going,  Vasily  Dmitritch?  " — 
"  Whither?  home,  of  course,  if  matters  are  as  bad 
as  that.  I  must  make  my  arrangements,  if  that 
is  so." — "  But,  g(wd  hea\ens!  you  will  do  yourself 
an  injury,  A^asily  Dnn'tritch;  I  'm  amazed  that 

59 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

v<.u  niAiniiXvd  t..  oct  licre,  as  it  is.  Uo  stay."— 
••  Ni..  bn.tlKT.  Kapitoii  Tiinofeeitch,  if  I  must 
(lie,  tluu  1  II  (lie  at  home;  for  if  1  were  to  die 
here,  the  Lord  oidy  knows  what  would  happen  at 
iiiv   house."—"  We   don't   know,   as   yet,   Vasily 

Dinitriteh,  liow  the  affair  will  turn  out 

'riuie  is  danger,  of  eourse,  very  great  danger, 

there's    n<>    (lis|)uting    tliat but    that    is 

preeiscly  the  ivason  why  you  ought  to  remain." 
(The  peasant  shook  iiis  head.)— "No,  Kapiton 

'riniof'eeiteh.   I    will   not  stay but  won't 

vou  i)reseril)e  some  medicine?" — "Medicine 
alone  will  not  help."—"  I  won't  stay,  I  tell  you." 
— '*  \\\11.  do  as  you  please  ....  only,  look  out, 
that  \nii  dont  blame  me  afterward!" 

Tlie  doctor  tore  a  leaf  out  of  the  album,  and, 
haxiiiL'  written  a  prescription,  he  advised  him 
wlmt  to  do  in  addition.  The  peasant  took  the 
j)ai)er,  gave  Kapiton  lialf  a  ruble,  left  the  room, 
and  c]iml)ed  into  his  cart. — "  Well,  good-bye, 
Kaj)it(')n  Timofeeiteh:  don't  bear  me  ill-will,  and 

dont  forget  my  orphans,  if  anything " 

■  II(  y.  stay  here.  \^isily!  " — The  peasant  merely 
shook  his  head,  slapped  his  horse  with  the  reins, 
and  drove  out  of  the  yard.  I  went  out  into  the 
street  and  "a/ed  after  liim.  The  road  was  muddv 
and  full  ol"  holes:  tlie  miller  drove  cautiously, 
without   haste,  guiding  the  horse  skilfully,  and 

nodding  to  the  ])ersons  whom  he  met On 

the  fourth  dav  he  died. 

GO 


DEATH 

On  the  whole,  it  is  wonderful  how  Russians 
(lie.  JNIany  dead  now  recur  to  my  mind.  I  recall 
thee,  my  old  friend,  Avenir  Sorokoiimoff',  my 
fellow-student,  who  did  not  finish  his  course,  a 
fine,  nohle  man!  Again  1  hehold  thy  consump- 
tive, greenish  face,  thy  thin,  reddish  hair,  thy 
gentle  smile,  thy  ecstatic  glance,  thy  long  limbs; 
I  hear  thy  weak,  caressing  voice.  Thou  livedst 
with  the  Great  Russian  landed  proprietor,  Gur 
Kupryanikoff ;  thou  didst  teach  his  children, Fof a 
and  Zyozo,  to  read  and  write  Russian,  together 
with  geography  and  history ;  thou  didst  patienth^ 
endure  the  heavy  jokes  of  Gur  himself,  the 
coarse  amiability  of  the  butler,  the  stale  pranks 
of  the  malicious  little  boys;  not  without  a  bitter 
smile,  but  also  without  complaint,  didst  thou 
comply  with  the  capricious  demands  of  the  bored 
lady  of  the  manor ;  on  the  other  hand,  when  thou 
wert  resting,  how  blissfully  happy  wert  thou  in 
the  evening,  after  supper,  when,  having  rid  thy- 
self, at  last,  of  all  obligations  and  occupations, 
thou  wert  wont  to  seat  thyself  at  the  window,  and 
pensively  smoke  thy  pipe,  or  eagerly  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  a  mutilated  and  soiled  number  of 
the  thick  journal  brought  from  town  by  the  sur- 
veyor, the  same  sort  of  homeless  wight  as  thyself ! 
How  pleased  wert  thou  then  by  all  poems  and 
novels,  how  easily  did  the  tears  well  up  to  thine 
eyes,  with  what  pleasure  didst  thou  laugh,  with 
what  genuine  love  for  mankind,  with  what  noble 

61 


MK.M(MKS  OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

sviiii)atliv    lor    tvcrvliiin^-    tliat    was    good    and 

*  *  •I'll 

iK-aiitiliil  was  thy  soul— pure  as  that  of  a  child — 
pcriiK-atcd!  I  must  say,  to  tell  the  truth,  thou 
wcrt  not  distinguished  for  extraordinary  wit; 
nature  liad  not  gifted  thee  with  either  memory  or 
studi(»usness;  in  the  university  thou  wert  reck- 
oned one  (.f  the  worst  students;  at  the  lectures 
thou  ut  rt  wont  to  sleep, — at  the  examinations, 
to  maintain  a  solemn  silence;  but  whose  eyes 
heamed  with  iov,  whose  breath  came  short  over 
the  success,  ovei  the  good  fortune  of  a  comrade? 
— Avenir's.  .  .  .  \Vho  believed  blindly  in  the 
lofty  mission  of  his  friends,  who  extolled  them 
with  pride,  wlio  defended  them  with  obduracy? 
Who  was  it  tliat  knew  neither  envy  nor  self-love, 
who  was  it  tliat  disinterestedly  sacrificed  himself, 
who  was  it  that  ^villin<>•lv  vielded  submission  to 
peoj)le  wlio  were  not  .vorth  the  soles  of  his  shoes? 

.\lwavs    thou,    always    thou,    our    kind 

Avem'rl  1  remember,  that  thou  l)a(lest  thy  com- 
rades I'arewell  w  ith  broken  heart,  when  thou  ^vert 
setting  off  to  become  a  tutor;  evil  premonitions 
tormented  thee.  .  .  .  iVnd,  in  fact,  thou  didst  fare 
l)ut  ill  in  the  country;  in  the  country  there  was  no 
one  foi-  thee  to  listen  to  adoringly,  no  one  to  ad- 
mire, no  one  to  love And  those  steppe- 
dwellers  and  cultivated  gentry  treated  thee  like 
a  teacher:  some  roughly,  others  carelessl3\  And 
moreover,  tliou  didst  not  ])re(lispose  in  thy  favour 
l>y  thine  ap[)earance;  thou  wert  shy,  thou  didst 

62 


DEATH 

blush,  cast  down  thine  eyes,  stammer.  .  .  .  The 
country  air  did  not  even  restore  thy  health:  thou 
didst  melt  away  like  a  candle,  poor  fellow! 
Truth  to  tell,  thy  chamber  looked  on  the  garden; 
bird-cherry  trees,  apple-trees,  linden-trees  shed 
their  light  blossoms  on  thy  table,  on  thy  ink- 
bottle,  on  thj^  books ;  on  the  wall  hung  a  little  blue 
silk  cushion  for  thy  watch,  given  to  thee  at  the 
hour  of  parting  by  a  kind,  sentimental  little 
German  governess  with  blonde  curls  and  small 
blue  eyes ;  sometimes  an  old  friend  from  Moscow 
dropped  in  to  see  thee,  and  wrought  thee  to  ec- 
stasy by  other  people's  verses,  or  even  by  his  own ; 
but  solitude,  the  intolerable  slavery  of  the  teach- 
er's calling,  the  impossibility  of  winning  freedom, 
the  endless  autumns  and  winters,  importunate 
illness.  .  .  .  Poor,  poor  Avenir! 

I  visited  SorokoiimoiF  not  long  before  his 
death.  He  w  as  hardly  able  to  walk.  Squire  Gur 
Kupryanikoff  did  not  eject  him  from  his  house, 
but  he  ceased  to  pay  him  any  salary,  and  hired  an- 
other tutor  for  Zyozo.  .  .  .  Fofa  had  been  sent 
off  to  the  cadet  school.  Avenir  w^as  sitting  by 
his  window,  in  an  old  Voltaire  chair.  The 
weather  w^as  magnificent.  The  bright  autumnal 
sky  gleamed  blue  above  the  dark -brown  row  of 
naked  lindens;  here  and  there  the  last  bright- 
yellow  leaves  on  them  were  rustling  and  whisper- 
ing. The  earth,  penetrated  with  frost,  w^as 
sweating  and  thawing  in  the  sun;  its  slanting 

63 


^IKMOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

crimson  rays  beat  .)l)liciiiely  on  tlie  pale  grass;  one 
tVlt  conscious  of  a  slight  crackling  in  the  air;  the 
voices  of  tilt'  hihourers  resounded  clearly  and  in- 
tclligilily  in  tlir  garden.  Avenir  wore  an  old 
IJukhani  (hvssing-gown:  a  green  neckerchief  cast 
a  dcathlv  hue  upon  liis  dreadfully  emaciated  face. 
He  was  extremely  delighted  to  see  me,  stretched 
out  his  hand,  and  began  to  speak,  and  to  cough. 
1  allowed  him  to  quiet  down,  and  seated  myself 
l)eside  him.  ...  On  Avenir's  lap  lay  a  note- 
!)ook  filK'd  with  poems  of  Koltzoif,  carefully 
copied;  he  tapped  it  with  the  other  hand. 
•  There  was  a  poet,''  he  faltered,  with  an  effort 
repressing  his  cough,  and  tried  to  declaim,  in  a 
barely  audible  voice: 

"Or  luith  the  falcon 
Fettered  wings? 
Or  are  his  patlis 
All  ordered?" 

I  sto])ped  him:  the  doctor  had  forbidden  him 
to  talk.  I  knew  what  would  please  him.  Soro- 
koiimoff'  had  never,  as  the  saying  is,  "  kept  in 
touch  ""  with  science,  but  he  was  curious  to  know 
what  the  great  minds  had  done,  and  how  far  they 
had  got  now.  lie  would,  sometimes,  take  a  com- 
lade  off  in  one  corner,  and  begin  to  interrogate 
hijn:  he  would  listen,  and  marvel,  and  believe  him 
imi)licitly,  and  then  re])eat  it  all  after  liim. 
(ierman    philosophy    in    particular    possessed    a 

64) 


DEATH 

strong  interest  for  him. — I  began  to  talk  to  him 
about  Hegel  (this  happened  long  ago,  as  you 
see).  Avenir  nodded  his  head  affirmatively,  ele- 
vated his  eyebrows,  smiled,  whispered:  "  I  under- 
stand, I  understand  ....  ah!  good,  good!  .  .  .  ." 
The  childlike  curiosity  of  the  poor,  dying,  home- 
less, and  discarded  fellow  touched  me  to  tears, 
I  admit.  I  must  remark,  that  Avenir,  contrary 
to  the  habit  of  most  consumptives,  did  not  deceive 
himself  in  the  least  as  to  his  malady  ....  and 
what  then?  He  did  not  sigh,  he  did  not  grieve,  he 
did  not  even  once  refer  to  his  condition.  .  .  . 

Collecting  his  forces,  he  talked  of  INIoscow,  of 
his  comrades,  of  Pushkin,  of  the  theatre,  and 
of  Russian  literature;  he  recalled  our  merry- 
makings, the  heated  discussions  of  our  circle, 
with  regret  he  mentioned  the  names  of  two  or 
three  friends  who  had  died 

"  Dost  thou  remember  Dasha?  " — he  added  at 
last: — "  that  was  a  soul  of  gold!  that  was  a  heart! 
and  how  she  loved  me!  ...  .  What  has  become 
of  her  now? — I  think  she  must  have  withered 
away,  gone  into  a  decline,  has  n't  she,  poor  girl?  " 

I  did  not  dare  to  undeceive  the  sick  man, — 
and,  in  fact,  wliy  should  he  know  that  his  Dasha 
was  now  twice  as  broad  as  she  was  long, 
and  consorted  with  merchants — with  the  brothers 
Kondatchkoff,  powdered  and  painted  herself, 
squealed  and  wrangled? 

"  But,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  gazed  at  his  ex- 

65 


MK.MOl  HS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

haustcd  I'acf,  "  cannot  he  be  got  caway  from  here? 
Perliaps  tlRiv  is  still  a  possibility  of  curing 
bini  ....'"  -But  Avcnir  did  not  permit  me  to 
finish  my  ]iroi)osal. 

••  No,  brother,  thanks,"— he  said: — "it  makes 
IK.  (liflVrence  wheie  I  die.  I  certainly  shall  not 
survive-  nntil  the  winter.  .  .  .  Why  disturb  peo- 
ple unnecessarily^  I  have  become  accustomed  to 
this  house.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  master  and  mis- 
tress here  are  .   .   .   ." 

"  Air  unkind,  thou  meanest?"  I  interpolated. 

''  \o,  not  unkind!  they  are  wooden  creatures, 
somehow.  However,  1  cannot  complain  of  them. 
There  are  neighbours:  I^anded  Proprietor  Kasat- 
kin  has  a  daughter,  a  cultivated,  amiable,  ex- 
tremely kind  young  girl  ....  not  proud  .  .  .  ." 

Again  Sorokoumofi*  had  a  fit  of  coughing. 

"  Nothing  would  matter," — he  went  on,  after 
resting: — "  if  I  were  only  permitted  to  smoke 
my  i)ipe.  .  .  .  15ut  I  'm  not  going  to  die  like 
this.  I  will  smoke  my  pipe!  " — he  added,  with  a 
sly  wink.^ — "  Thank  God,  I  've  lived  enough, 
enough.     I  "ve  known  good  people.   .   .   ." 

"  Hut  Ihou  shouldst  write  to  thy  relatives," — 
I   interrupted  him. 

"  What  's  the  good  of  w'riting  to  my  relatives? 
So  far  as  helj)ing  is  concerned, — they  won't  help 
me:  when  I  die,  they  will  hear  of  it.  But  what 's 
the  use  ol"  talking  about  this.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
rather,  what  hast  thou  .seen  abroad?  " 

66 


DEATH 

I  began  to  narrate.  He  fairly  bored  his  eyes 
into  me.  Toward  evening  I  went  away,  and  ten 
days  later  I  received  the  following  letter  from 
Mr.  KupryanikofF : 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you  herewith,  my  dear 
sir,  that  your  friend,  tlie  student  Mr.  Avenir  Sorokoil- 
mofF,  who  resided  in  my  house,  died  three  days  ago,  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  buried  to-day  in 
my  parish  church  at  my  expense.  He  requested  me  to 
send  you  the  accompanying  seven  books  and  note-books. 
It  turned  out  that  he  had  twenty-two  rubles  and  a  half, 
which,  together  with  his  remaining  things,  become  the 
property  of  his  relatives.  Your  friend  died  perfectly 
conscious,  and,  I  may  say,  with  equal  lack  of  feeling, 
without  having  displayed  any  signs  whatsoever  of  regret, 
even  when  our  entire  family  bade  him  farewell.  My  con- 
soi-t,  Kleopatra  Alexandrovna,  sends  you  her  compli- 
ments. The  death  of  your  friend  could  not  fail  to  have 
an  effect  upon  her  nerves ;  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  am 
well,  thank  God,  and  have  the  honour  to  be — 

Your  most  humble  servant 

G.  KupryanikofF." 

Many  other  instances  occur  to  my  mind, — but 
it  would  be  impossible  to  recount  them  all.  I  will 
confine  myself  to  one. 

An  aged  landed  proprietress  died  in  my  pres- 
ence. The  priest  began  to  read  over  her  the  pray- 
ers for  a  departing  soul,  but  suddenly  observed 
that  she  was  actually  dying,  and  with  all  haste 

67 


MI.MOllJS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

iiuw  licr  the  cross  to  kiss.  The  ladv  tlinist  it  aside 
impaticiitlv.  \\'li\  art  thou  in  such  a  luirrv,  ba- 
tiuslikaf" — she  said  w  itii  her  sluggish  tongue: — 
"  thou  will  lia\c  ])lcnty  of  time."  .  .  .  She 
kissed  the  cross,  tried  to  thrust  her  hand  under  the 
pilIo\\.  and  (h'cw  her  hist  breath.  Under  the  pil- 
low lay  a  siKcr  ruble:  she  wanted  to  pay  the 
priest  lor  her  own  prayer-service.  .  .  . 

Ves.  wonderful  is  the  wav  in  which  Russians 

die! 


68 


IV 

THE  SINGERS 

The  small  village  of  Kolotovka,  which  formerly 
belonged  to  a  landed  proprietress  who  was  known 
throughout  the  neighbourhood  as  the  Planer 
on  account  of  her  energetic  and  evil  disposition 
(her  real  name  remained  unknown),  but  now  the 
property  of  some  Petersburg  Germans  or  other, 
lies  on  the  slope  of  a  bare  hill,  intersected  from 
top  to  bottom  by  a  frightful  ravine,  which,  yawn- 
ing like  a  bottomless  pit,  winds  its  way,  cleft  and 
excavated  by  torrents,  through  the  very  middle 
of  the  street,  and  separates  the  two  sides  of  the 
poor  little  hamlet  Avorse  than  a  river, — for  across 
a  river  a  bridge  may,  at  least,  be  built.  A  few 
spindling  willows  timidly  descend  its  sandy 
slopes;  at  the  very  bottom,  dry  and  yellow  as 
brass,  lie  huge  slabs  of  clayey  stone.  The  aspect 
is  cheerless,  there  's  no  denying  that, — and  yet, 
all  the  inhabitants  of  the  neighbourhood  are  well 
acquainted  with  the  road  to  Kolotovka:  they  re- 
sort thither  often  and  gladly. 

At  the  very  apex  of  the  ravine,  a  few  paces 

69 


MKATOIKS   OF   A    SrOHTSMAX 

Irniii  tijc  point  wluii-  it  lias  its  hc'^iiining  as  a 
narrow  clvi'i,  stands  a  tiny  lour-sqiiarc  cottage, — 
alont',  apart  from  the  rest.  It  is  roofed  with 
straw  thatcli,  and  has  a  cliimney;  one  window  is 
turnt-d  t(.  the  ra\  inr,  Hke  a  vigilant  eye,  and  on 
winter  e\enings.  illuminated  from  within,  it  is 
visihle  from  afai',  athwart  tlie  dim  mist  of  the 
frost,  and  twinkles  forth  as  a  guiding  star  to 
man\  a  wayfaring  peasant.  Over  the  door  of  the 
cottage  a  hlue  hoard  is  nailed  n]):  this  cot  is  a 
dram-shop,  called  "  The  Pritvnnv."  ^  Pro})abIv 
the  licjuoi"  ill  this  dram-shop  is  not  sold  for  an}'' 
less  than  the  current  price,  but  it  is  much  more 
diligently  fre(juented  than  all  the  other  establish- 
ments of  the  same  character  in  the  vicinity. 
Xikohii  Ivaniteh.  the  tapster,  is  the  cause. 

Xikohii  l\;t!iiteh.  once  upon  a  time  a  slender, 
eiirlv-haired.  I'osv-cheeked  voung  fellow,  but  now 
a  icmarkahly  obese  man,  already  turning  grey, 
with  a  lace  swimming  in  fat,  cunning  but  good- 
natured  little  eves,  and  a  Heshv  brow,  intersected 
by  thi-ead-like  wi'inkles,  has  been  living  in  Ko- 
l<)t(n  ka  foi-  more  than  twenty  years.  Nikolai 
I\;initeh  is  a  smart,  shrewd  man,  like  the  ma- 
jority of  dram-shop  keepers.  Without  being  dis- 
tinguished by  any  s])ecial  amiability  or  loquacity, 
he  possesses  the  gift  of  attracting  and  retaining 
his  patrons,  w  Ik;,  i'or  some  reason,  find  it  particu- 

'  Any  place  wlicre  p«-<>j»le  arc   fond  of  asseiiil)ling,  any  agreeable 
(priyatny)   place,  is  called  "  pritynny." 

70 


THE  SINGERS 

larly  jolly  to  sit  in  front  of  his  counter,  beneath 
the  calm  and  cordial,  though  keen  gaze  of  tlie 
])hlegmatic  liost.  lie  has  a  great  deal  of  com- 
mon sense;  he  is  well  acquainted  with  the  ways  of 
the  gentry  and  of  the  peasantry  and  of  tlie 
burghers;  in  (hffieulties,  he  might  give  advice 
which  was  far  from  stupid,  but,  as  a  cautious  man 
and  an  egoist,  he  prefers  not  to  interfere,  and,  at 
most,  merely  by  distant  hints  uttered  as  though 
wholly  devoid  of  intention,  will  he  guide  his  pa- 
trons— and  even  then  only  his  favourite  patrons 
— into  the  way  of  truth.  He  is  a  good  judge  of 
everything  which  is  important  or  interesting  to 
the  Russian  man :  of  horses  and  cattle,  of  forests 
and  of  bricks,  of  crockery  and  dry-goods  and 
leather  wares,  of  songs  and  dances.  When  he  has 
no  guests,  he  generally  sits,  like  a  sack,  on  the 
ground  in  front  of  his  cottage,  with  his  thin  legs 
tucked  up  under  him,  and  exchanges  affable  re- 
marks with  all  the  passers-by.  He  has  seen  a 
great  deal  in  his  day,  he  has  outlived  scores  of 
petty  gentry  who  have  come  to  him  for  "  alco- 
hol," he  know^s  everything  that  is  going  on  for  a 
hundred  versts  round  about,  and  never  blurts  it 
out,  never  even  has  the  appearance  of  knowing 
tliat  which  not  even  the  most  penetrating  com- 
missioner of  rural  police  so  much  as  suspects. 
He  minds  his  own  business,  holds  his  tongue, 
smiles  to  himself,  and  shifts  his  drinking-glasses 
about.     The  neighbours  respect  him.     The  ci- 

71 


MKMOIRS   OF   A   SPOHTS:srAN 

.ilian  Cic-m-ral  '  Slislitcherspetenko,  tlic  Icadino- 
s«iuirc  111"  tlic  district  as  to  rank,  always  nods  con- 
dtscvndin«il\-  to  liini  wlienevci-  he  passes  his  little 
iiouse.  Nikolai  Ivaniteh  is  a  man  of  influence:  he 
forced  a  well-known  horse-thief  to  restore  a  horse 
wiiich  he  had  ahstracted  from  the  yard  of  one  of 
his  aciiiiaintances,  he  hrought  to  their  senses  the 
peasants  of  a  neighbouring  village  who  were  un- 
\\illing  to  accept  a  new  manager,  and  so  forth. 
Hilt  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  he  did  this  out 
of  love  for  justice,  out  of  zeal  for  his  neighbours 
no!  lie  simply  endeavours  to  prevent  anything 
whicli  may  in  any  way  disturb  his  tranquillity. 
Nikolai  Ivaniteh  is  married,  and  has  children. 
His  wife,  an  alert,  sharp-nosed,  and  quick-ej^ed 
woman  of  the  burgher  class,  has  also  grown 
rather  heavv  in  bodv  of  late,  like  her  husband. 
lie  relies  upon  her  thoroughly,  and  she  keeps 
their  money  under  lock  and  key.  Boisterous 
drunkards  fear  her;  she  is  not  fond  of  them:  there 
is  little  j)rofit  from  them,  but  much  uproar;  the 
silent,  surly  sort  are  more  to  her  taste.  Xikolai 
Ivanitch's  children  are  still  small;  all  the  first- 
born have  died,  but  the  rest  resemble  their  pa- 
rents: it  is  a  pleasure  to  look  at  the  clever  faces 
of  these  robust  vounosters. 

'  Aorordiiig  to  Peter  the  Great's  famous  Table  of  Ranks,  civil- 
ians liohi  military  titles  (though  they  are  rarely  used,  except  in 
the  case  of  "  general ")  which  correspond  with  tlie  grade  they 
have  attained.  In  order  of  precedence,  tlie  "generals"  run  as 
follows:  Actual  Privy  Councillor  corresponds  to  General  of  Cav- 
alry. Infantry,  or  Artillery;  Privy  Councillor,  to  Meutenant-Gen- 
cral;  Actual  Councillor  of  State,  to  xMajor-General.— Tkanslator. 

72 


THE  SINGERS 

It  was  an  intolerably  hot  July  day,  when, 
slowly  putting  one  foot  before  the  other,  and  ac- 
companied by  my  dog,  I  made  my  way  upward 
along  the  Kolotovka  ravine  in  the  direction  of  the 
Pritynny  dram-sho}).  The  sun  was  blazing  in  the 
sky,  as  though  in  a  furious  rage;  it  stewed  and 
baked  one  unremittingly;  the  air  was  impreg- 
nated with  stifling  dust.  The  daws  and  crows, 
covered  with  gloss,  with  gaping  bills  stared  at 
the  passers-by,  as  though  entreating  their  sympa- 
thy ;  the  sparrows  were  the  only  ones  who  did  not 
grieve,  and  puffing  out  their  feathers,  they  twit- 
tered more  violently  than  ever,  and  fought  in  the 
hedges,  flew  amicably  from  the  dusty  road,  and 
soared  in  grey  clouds  above  the  green  patches 
of  hemp.  I  was  suff"ering  tortures  from  thirst. 
There  was  no  water  near;  in  Kolotovka,  as  in 
many  other  villages  of  the  steppes,  the  peasants 
drink  a  sort  of  liquid  mud  from  the  pond,  in  de- 
fault of  springs  or  wells.  .  .  .  But  who  would 
call  that  repulsive  beverage  water?  I  wanted  to 
ask  Nikolai  Ivanitch  for  a  glass  of  beer  or  kvas. 

I  must  admit  that  Kolotovka  does  not  present 
a  very  cheerful  spectacle  at  any  season  of  the 
year;  but  it  arouses  a  particularly  sad  feeling 
when  the  glittering  July  sun  with  its  pitiless  rays 
is  heating  the  dark-brown,  half -dispersed  thatches 
of  the  houses,  and  that  deep  ravine,  and  the 
burnt-up,  dusty  pasture,  across  which  hopelessly 
wander  gaunt,  long-legged  hens,  and  the  grey, 
aspen  framework  with  holes  in  lieu  of  windows, 

73 


MK.MOIKS   OF   A   SPORTS.MAX 

tlu-  niiiiKiiit  oi'  the*  fornicr  manor-house,  com 
plfttly  ovirgrowii  with  ritttles,  steppe-grass,  and 
wonuuootl,  and  covered  with  goose-down,  the 
hhiek  pond,  n-d-hot  as  it  were,  with  a  fringe  of 
half-drifd  nind.  and  a  dam,  twisted  awry,  by 
whose  sidt .  (»ii  the  asli-hUe  soil, trodden  fine,sheep, 
barely  l)reathing  and  sneezing  with  the  dust, 
sadl\-  imddlc  close  to  one  another,  and  with  de- 
jected patience  bow  their  lieads  as  though  wait- 
ing for  that  intolerable  heat  to  pass  off  at  last. 
With  wiaiy  stc])s  I  approached  the  abode  of  Ni- 
kolai haiiiteli,  exoking  in  the  small  brats,  as  was 
j)roj)er,  a  suiprise  which  rose  to  the  pitch  of 
.strainedly-irrational  stares,  and  in  the  dogs  wrath 
u Inch  was  expressed  by  l>arking  so  hoarse  and 
vicious,  that  it  seemed  as  though  all  their  entrails 
were  bring  torn  out  of  them,  and  they  themselves 
coughed  and  panted  after  it, — when,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, on  the  threshold  of  the  dram-shop  there  made 
his  ap{)earance  a  peasant  of  lofty  stature,  capless, 
in  a  frieze  cloak,  girt  low  v»ith  a  sky-blue  girdle. 
I'rom  his  apj)earance,  he  seemed  to  be  a  house- 
servant;  his  thick  grey  hair  rose  in  disorder  above 
his  lean,  \\  rinkled  face.  He  called  some  one,  hur- 
riedly gesticulating  with  his  arms,  which,  evi- 
dently, made  more  sweeping  flourishes  than  he 
himself  intended.  It  was  obvious  that  he  had  al- 
ready succeeded  in  getting  intoxicated. 

"  Come  along,  come  along,  I  say!" — he  stam- 
mered, ele\ating  his  thick  eyebrows  with  an  ef- 

74 


THE  SINGERS 

fort: — "  come  along,  Blinker,  come  along!  deuce 
take  thee,  my  good  fellow,  thou  fairly  crawlest, 
upon  my  word.  'T  is  not  well,  my  good  fellow. 
They  are  waiting  for  thee,  and  here  thou  art 
crawling.   .   .   .   Come  along." 

"  Well,  I  'm  coming,  1  'm  coming," — re- 
sounded a  quavering  voice,  and  from  behind  the 
cottage,  on  the  right,  a  short,  fat,  lame  man  made 
his  a])pearance.  He  wore  a  fairly  clean  woollen 
overcoat,  with  his  arm  in  one  sleeve  only;  a  tall, 
conical  cap,  pulled  straight  down  to  his  brows, 
imparted  to  his  round,  plump  face  a  sly  and  jeer- 
ing expression.  His  small,  yellow  eyes  fairly 
darted  about,  a  repressed,  constrained  smile  never 
left  his  lips,  and  his  long,  sharp  nose  pro- 
jected audaciously  in  front  like  a  rudder. — 
"  I  'm  coming,  my  dear  fellow," — he  went  on, 
hobbling  in  the  direction  of  the  dram-shop: — 
"why  dost  thou  call  me?  .  .  .  Who  is  waiting 
for  me?  " 

"  Why  do  I  call  thee?  " — said  the  man  in  the 
frieze  coat,  reproachfully. — ^"  Thou  'rt  a  queer 
fellow,  Blinker:  thou  art  called  to  the  dram-shoji, 
and  thou  askest :  '  Why  ? '  Good  men  are  waiting 
for  thee:  Turk-Yashka,  and  Wild  Gentleman, 
and  the  contractor  from  Zhisdra.  Yashka  and 
the  contractor  have  made  a  bet:  thev  have  wa- 
gered  a  gallon  of  beer  as  to  which  one  of  them 
will  outdo  the  other, — that  is  to  say,  which  will 
sing  the  best Dost  understand?  " 

7o 


MKMOIHS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

"Is  Vaslika  ^oino-  to  sing?" — said  tlie  man 
callfd  lilinker,  with  vivacity, — "And  art  not  thou 
\\\\\^.  Ninny  :*  " 

•'  1  III  not  lyinu/' — replied  The  Ninny,  with 
(h'tJ-nitv:  •'  hut  thou  art  talking-  crazy  nonsense. 
Oi"  course  he  "s  going  to  sing,  if  he  has  made  a  bet, 
thou  hi(ly-hug,  tliou  rogue,  Blinker!" 

*'  Well,  come  on  then,  silly,"  retorted  Blinker. 

"  Come,  kiss  me  at  least,  my  darling," — stam- 
mered The  NiiHiy,  opening  his  arms  widely. 

"  Pshaw .  wliat  a  tender  ^-Esop," — replied 
Hhnker,  scornfully,  irpulsing  him  with  his  elbow, 
and  both,  l)ending  down,  entered  the  low-browed 
d(X)r. 

The  conversation  I  had  overheard  powerfully 
excited  my  curiosity.  JNIore  than  once  rumours 
liad  readied  me  about  Turk-Yashka  as  the  best 
singer  in  the  vicinity,  and  an  opportunity^  had 
now  presented  itself  to  me  to  hear  him  in  compe- 
tition with  another  master  of  the  art.  I  redoubled 
my  i)ace,  and  entered  the  establishment.  In  all 
l)robal)ihtv,  not  many  of  mv  readers  have  had  a 
chance  to  take  a  peep  at  country  dram-shoj^s;  but 
into  what  i)laces  do  not  we  sportsmen  enter! 
Their  arrangement  is  extremely  simple.  They 
usually  consist  of  a  dark  anteroom  and  a  light  cot- 
tsige,  separated  into  two  divisions  by  a  partition, 
behind  which  no  visitor  has  the  right  to  go.  In 
this  partition,  above  the  broad,  oaken  table,  a 
large,  oblong  opening  is  made.     On  the  table  or 

76 


THE  SINGERS 

counter  the  liquor  is  sold.  Sealed  square  bottles 
of  various  sizes  stand  in  rows  on  shelves,  directly 
opposite  the  aperture.  In  tlie  central  ])art  of  the 
cottage,  designed  for  patrons,  are  benches,  two 
or  three  empty  casks,  and  a  corner  table.  The 
majority  of  country  dram-shops  are  rather  dark, 
and  almost  never  Mill  you  see  on  their  board  walls 
any  of  the  brilliantly  coloured  cheap  pictures 
which  are  lacking  in  very  few  cottages. 

When  I  entered  the  Pritynny  dram-shop,  a 
fairly  numerous  company  was  already  assembled 
there. 

Behind  the  counter,  as  w^as  proper,  almost  to 
the  full  extent  of  the  aperture,  Nikolai  Ivanitch 
was  standing  in  a  gay-coloured  cotton  shirt  and 
with  a  languid  smile  on  his  plump  cheeks,  and 
pouring  out  w  ith  his  fat,  white  hands  two  glasses 
of  liquor  for  the  friends  who  had  just  entered. 
Blinker  and  The  Ninny;  and  behind  him,  in  the 
corner,  near  the  window,  his  brisk-ej^ed  wife  was 
to  be  seen.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood 
Yashka-the-Turk,  a  spare  and  well-built  man  of 
three-and-twenty  years,  clad  in  a  long-tailed  nan- 
keen kaftan,  blue  in  coloin*.  He  looked  like  a 
dashing  factory-hand,  and,  apparently,  could  not 
boast  of  very  robust  health.  His  sunken  cheeks, 
his  large,  uneasy  grey  eyes,  his  straight  nose  with 
thin,  mobile  nostrils,  his  white  receding  brow, 
with  light  chestnut  curls  tossed  back,  his  large  but 
handsome  and  expressive  lips — his  whole  counte-= 

77 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

iiaiuv  (li-nott'd  ;iii  iiiij)ivssionablc  and  ])assi()nate 
man.  I  h  was  in  a  state  of  gvvat  excitement:  his 
eyes  were  w  inking'  Iianl,  lie  was  breathini>'  irregu- 
larlv,  his  hands  were  trenibhn^'  as  though  with 
fever,- -and  lie  really  had  a  fever,  that  palpitat- 
inir.  sudden  fexcr  whieh  is  so  familiar  to  all 
peopli'  who  speak  or  sing  })efore  un  audience. 
Jieside  him  stood  a  man  about  forty  years  of  age, 
broad-shouldered,  with  broad  cheek-bones,  and  a 
low  brow ,  nairow  Tatar  eyes,  a  short,  thick  nose, 
a  scjuarc  cliiii,  and  shining  bhick  liair  as  stiff  as 
bristles.  The  expression  of  his  swarthy  and 
leaden-hued  face,  especially  of  his  pallid  lips, 
might  ha\e  been  designated  as  almost  fierce,  had 
it  not  been  so  composedly-meditative.  He 
hardly  stiiTed.  and  only  slowly  glanced  around 
him,  like  ;'n  ox  from  beneath  his  yoke.  He  w'as 
dre.s.sed  in  some  sort  of  a  threadbare  coat  with 
sMUJotii,  l)rass  l)uttons;  an  old,  black  silk  kerchief 
encircled  liis  Imgc  mek.  He  was  called  the  Wild 
(ientleman.  Directly  opposite  him,  on  the  bench, 
beneath  tlu'  holy  })ictu,res,  sat  Yashka's  com- 
j)etitor,  the  contractor  from  Zhisdra:  he  was  a 
thick-set  j)easant,  low  of  stature,  aged  thirty, 
j)ockmarked  and  curly-haired,  witli  a  stub})y, 
snub  nose,  small,  lively  brown  eyes,  and  a  small, 
thin  beard.  lie  cast  bold  glances  about  him,  with 
liis  Ii.uKJs  tucked  under  him,  chattered  inces- 
santly, and  kept  tapping  with  his  feet,  which  were 
shod  ill  danditied  boots  with  a  border. 

78 


THE  SINCxERS 

He  wore  a  new,  thin  arniyak  '  of  grey  cloth, 
with  a  velveteen  collar,  against  which  tlie  edge  of 
a  scarlet  shirt,  closely  hiittoned  around  the  throat, 
stood  out  sliarply.  In  the  opposite  corner,  to  the 
right  of  the  door,  at  the  tal)le,  an  insignificant  lit- 
tle peasant  was  sitting,  clad  in  a  scant,  threadbare 
smock-frock  with  a  huge  hole  in  the  shoulder. 
The  sunlight  streamed  in  a  thin,  yellowisli  flood 
through  tlie  dusty  panes  of  two  tiny  windows, 
and,  apparently,  could  not  conquer  the  liahitual 
gloom  of  the  room:  all  the  objects  were  scantily 
illuminated, — in  spots,  as  it  were.  On  the  other 
liand,  it  was  almost  cool  there,  and  the  sensation 
of  suffocation  and  sultry  heat  slipped  from  my 
shoulders,  like  a  burden,  as  soon  as  I  had  stepped 
across  the  threshold. 

My  arrival — I  could  see  it — somewhat  discon- 
certed Nikolai  Ivanitch's  guests  at  first;  but, 
perceiving  that  he  boAved  to  me,  as  to  an  acquain- 
tance, they  recovered  their  composure,  and  paid 
no  further  attention  to  me.  I  ordered  some  beer, 
and  seated  myself  in  the  corner,  beside  the  peas- 
ant in  the  torn  smock. 

"Well,  what  now!" — suddenly  roared  The 
Ninny,  tossing  oil"  a  glass  of  beer  at  one  gulp, 
and  accompanying  his  exclamation  with  the  same 
strange  flourishing  of  the  hands,  without  which, 

^  A  coat  wliich  is  fitted  as  far  as  the  waist-line,  folds  dia<roiially 
across  the  front,  and  lias  considerai)Ie  fullness  ini]>arted  to  tlie 
tails  by  plaits  inserted  at  the  waist  where  the  curving  seams  from 
the  shoulders  join  the  si<irt.— Tuan'si.ator. 

79 


MKMOIHS   OF   A    SPORTSMxVN 

cvidi-iitly.    lit'    never    uttered    a    single    word. — 
•  What  are  wt-  waiting  for^     If  you  're  going  to 
Iks' in,  \\\\\   lie-in.     Ilev^   Yashka?  ..." 

*'  lie«'in.  I)e^•in,'■ — chimed  in  Xikolai  Ivanitch, 
aj>i)n»vingly. 

■  \\\    \\  ill  l)ei'iii.  il'  voii  like," — said  the  con- 
tractor,  coolly,  and  Nvith  a  self-satisfied  smile: — 

1    III  iiady." 

"  And  1  III  ready," — enunciated  Yakoff,  with 
agitation. 

"  Well,  hegin,  my  lads,  begin,"  piped  Blinker. 

IJiit,  despite  the  unanimously  expressed  desire, 
no  one  did  l)egin;  the  contractor  did  not  even  rise 
from  his  bench, — all  seemed  to  be  waiting  for 
sometliing. 

Hegin!  " — said  the  AVild  Gentleman,  sharply 
and  morosely. 

^'akof^  gave  a  start.  The  contractor  rose, 
pulled  (low  II  his  girdle,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"But  who's  to  begin?" — he  asked,  in  a 
slightly  altered  voice  of  the  Wild  Gentleman, 
wjio  still  continued  to  stand  motionless  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  with  his  thick  legs  strad- 
dled I'ar  apart,  and  his  mighty  arms  thrust  into 
the  pockets  of  his  full  trousers  almost  to  the 
elhow . 

"  Tlioii.  thou,  contractor," — lisped  The  Ninny, 
— "  thou,  my  good  fellow." 

The  Wild  (ientleman  darted  a  sidelonfy  glance 
at  him.     The  Xinny  gave  a  faint  squeak,  grew 

80 


THE  SINGERS 

confused,  stjired  at  some  point  on  the  ceiling, 
twitclied  his  shoulders,  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Cast  lots," — said  the  Wild  Gentleman  with 
a  pause  between  his  words: — "  and  let  the  meas- 
ure of  beer  be  placed  on  the  counter." 

Nikolai  Ivanitch  bent  down,  picked  up  the 
measure  from  the  floor,  ^vitli  a  grunt,  and  set  it 
on  the  table. 

The  Wild  Gentleman  glanced  at  Yakoff,  and 
said:   "  Go  ahead!  " 

Yakoff  fumbled  in  his  pockets,  drew  forth  a 
two-kopek  piece,  and  bit  a  mark  in  it.  The  con- 
tractor pulled  from  beneath  the  tails  of  his  kaf- 
tan a  new  leathern  purse,  deliberately  untied  the 
cords,  and  pouring  out  a  quantity  of  small  change 
into  his  hand,  selected  a  new  two-kopek  bit.  The 
Ninny  held  out  his  well-worn  cap,  with  its 
broken  and  ripped  visor;  Yakoff  tossed  his  coin 
into  it,  and  the  contractor  tossed  in  his. 

"  'T  is  for  thee  to  draw,"— said  the  Wild  Gen- 
tleman, turning  to  Blinker. 

Blinker  laughed  in  a  self-satisfied  way,  took 
the  cap  in  both  hands,  and  began  to  shake  it. 

Instantaneously  a  profound  silence  reigned: 
the  coins,  faintly  jingling,  clinked  against  each 
other.  I  cast  an  attentive  glance  around:  all 
faces  expressed  strained  expectation;  the  Wild 
Gentleman  himself  screwed  up  his  eyes;  my 
neighboiu-,  the  wretched  little  peasant  in  the  torn 
smock,  even  craned  out  his  neck  with  curiosity. 

81 


MKMOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

HIiiiktr  tlinist  his  hand  into  tlic  cap  and  drew  out 
the  contractors  coin:  all  heaved  a  sigh.  Yakoff 
fhislud  scarlet,  and  the  contractor  passed  his 
hand  over  his  hair. 

'*  There,  did  n"t  I  say  that  thou  sliouldst  be- 
•riu."— exclaimed  The  Ninny.     "  1  told  you  so!  " 

"  Well.  well,  don't  s({uawk,"  ' — remarked 
the  Wild  (ientlenian.  disdainfully.  "Begin," — 
he  added,  noddirjg  his  head  at  the  contractor. 

'What  song  shall  I  sing?  " — inquired  the  con- 
tractor, hecoming  flustered. 

'■  Whatever  one  thou  wilt," — replied  Blinker. 
■  Whatever  song   comes   into   thy   head,   sing 
that." 

Wluitever  one  thou  pleasest,  of  course, "^ — ■ 
added  Nikolai  Ivanileli,  slowly  folding  his  arms 
on  liis  chest. — "There's  no  decree  for  thee  on 
that  matter.  Sing  what  thou  wilt;  only,  sing 
well;  and  afterward,  we  will  decide  according  to 
our  consciences." 

"  According  to  our  consciences,  of  course," — 
put  in  The  Ninny,  and  licked  the  rim  of  his  empty 
glass. 

"  Let  me  clear  my  throat  a  bit,  my  good  fel= 
lows," — began  the  contractor,  drawing  his  fingers 
alf)ng  the-  cdllai-  of  his  kaftan. 

■'Come,  come,  don't  dawdle — begin!" — said 
the  Wild  Crentleman,  with  decision,  and  dropped 
his  eves. 

* 

'  Hawks  squawk  wlien  they  are  frightened  by  anything. 

82 


THE  SINGERS 

The  contractor  reflected  a  while,  shook  his  head, 
and  advanced  a  pace.  Yakoff  riveted  his  eyes 
upon  him.  ... 

But  before  1  enter  upon  a  description  of  the 
contest  itself,  1  consider  it  not  superfluous  to  say 
a  few  words  about  each  of  the  acting  personages 
of  my  tale.  The  life  of  several  of  them  was  al- 
ready known  to  me,  when  I  encountered  them  in 
the  Pritynny  dram-shop;  I  collected  information 
concerning  the  others  later  on. 

Let  us  begin  with  The  Ninny.  This  man's  real 
name  was  Evgraf  Ivanoff ;  but  no  one  in  all  the 
country  round  about  called  him  anything  but  The 
Ninny,  and  he  alluded  to  himself  by  this  nick- 
name also;  so  well  did  it  fit  him.  And,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  nothing  could  have  been  better  suited 
to  his  insignificant,  eternally  alarmed  features. 
He  was  an  idle,  unmarried  house-serf,  who  had 
very  long  since  been  discarded  by  his  owners,  and 
who,  although  he  had  nc  duties  and  received  not  a 
penny  of  wages,  found  the  means,  nevertheless, 
to  indulge  in  daily  sprees  at  other  people's  ex- 
pense. He  had  a  multitude  of  acquaintances, 
who  treated  him  to  licjuor  and  to  tea,  without 
themselves  knowing  why  they  did  so,  because  he 
not  only  was  not  entertaining  in  company,  but 
even,  on  the  contrary,  bored  every  one  with  his 
senseless  chatter,  his  unbearable  insolence,  his 
feverish  movements  and  incessant,  unnatural 
laughter.    He  could  neither  sing  nor  dance;  in  all 

83 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

his  lilV  lie-  had  not  uttered  a  witty  nor  even  a  sensi- 
ble word:  lie  did  nothing  but  "tipple"  and  lie 
at  random — a  regular  ninny!  And  yet,  not  a 
single  drinking-bout  took  place  within  a  circuit 
of  forty  \ersts  ^^'ithout  his  long-limbed  figure 
turning  u})  among  the  guests, — so  wonted  had 
they  become  to  him,  and  so  tolerant  of  his  pres- 
ence as  an  inevitable  evil.  He  was  treated  scorn- 
I'ully,  it  is  true,  but  no  one  except  the  AVild  Gen- 
tleman knew  how  to  put  a  stop  to  his  inopportune 
outbursts. 

Blinker  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  The  Ninny. 
Tiie  name  Blinker  suited  him  also,  although  he 
did  not  ])link  his  eyes  more  than  other  people:  't  is 
a  ^^ell-known  fact  that  the  Russian  populace  are 
master-hands  at  bestowing  nicknames.  Despite 
my  efforts  to  investigate  more  circumstantially 
the  past  of  this  man,  there  yet  remained  for  me — 
and,  probably,  for  others  also — dark  spots  in  his 
life,  i)laces,  as  the  men  learned  in  book-lore  ex- 
press it,  veiled  in  the  profound  gloom  of  obscur- 
ity. All  1  found  out  was,  that  he  had  formerly 
been  the  coachman  of  an  old,  childless  landed 
])roprietres.5,  had  absconded  with  the  team  of 
three  horses  entrusted  to  him,  had  disappeared 
for  a  \vhole  year,  and  having  become  convinced 
by  experience,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  of  the  disad- 
\antages  and  miseries  of  a  vagabond  existence, 
had  returned  of  liis  own  accord,  but  lame,  had 
liung  himself  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress,  and. 

84 


THE   SINGERS 

Iiaving  for  the  space  of  several  j^ears  atoned 
for  his  crime  by  exemplary  conduct,  had  gradu- 
ally got  into  her  good  graces,  had  at  last  won 
her  complete  confidence,  had  been  made  over- 
seer, and  after  the  death  of  his  mistress  now 
turned  cut  to  have  been  emancipated,  no  one 
knew  how,  had  inscribed  himself  in  the  burgher 
class,  had  begun  to  hire  ground  for  raising  mel- 
ons and  cucumbers  from  the  neighbours,  had 
grown  rich,  and  now  lived  in  clover.  He  was  a 
man  of  experience,  opinionated,  neither  good- 
natured  nor  malicious,  but  calculating,  rather; 
he  was  a  cunning  rogue,  acquainted  with  men's 
ways,  and  knew  how  to  take  advantage  of 
them.  He  was  cautious  and,  at  the  same  time, 
enterprising,  like  a  fox ;  loquacious  as  an  old  wo- 
man, yet  never  made  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  while 
he  made  every  one  else  betray  himself  in  speech; 
moreover,  he  did  not  pretend  to  be  a  simpleton,  as 
some  crafty  persons  of  the  same  stamp  do;  and, 
indeed,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  him  to  dis- 
simulate: I  have  never  seen  more  piercing  and 
clever  eyes  than  his  tiny,  crafty  "  peepers."  ^ 
They  never  simply  looked — they  were  ahvays 
watching  or  spying  out.  Blinker  would  some- 
times consider  for  weeks  at  a  stretch  some  appar- 
ently simple  undertaking,  and  then  suddenly  de- 
cide  upon   some   desperately-bold   operation,    in 

The  people  of  the  Orel  (Aryol)  Government  call  eyes  "peepers," 
as   thej^  call   the  mouth   "  the   eater." 

85 


MKMOIKS  OK  A   SPORTSMAN 

uliiili.  t..  all  apiK-araiiccs,  lie  was  sure  to  l»reak 

his  iRvk Viul  the  first  you  knew,— every- 

thin«r  had  turneil  out  a  success,  everything  was 
niiiiiiiii'-  as  though  on  oiled  wheels.  He  was 
lucky,  and  i)elieved  in  his  luck,  and  believed  in 
omens.  Altogether,  he  was  very  superstitious. 
He  was  not  hcloNcd,  because  he  cared  nothing  for 
any  one,  but  he  was  respected.  His  entire  family 
consisted  of  one  small  son,  whom  he  fairly  adored, 
and  who,  reared  by  such  a  father,  would  in  all 
probability  go  far.  "Little  Blinker"  (Morga- 
tchonok)  "takes  after  his  father,"  the  old  peo- 
ple already  said  of  him,  with  bated  breath,  as  they 
sat  on  the  earthen  banks  around  the  cottages 
and  chatted  among  themselves  on  summer  even- 
ings; and  everybody  understood  what  that  meant, 
and  added  not  a  word  more. 

There  is  no  necessity  for  occupying  ourselves 
{ouir  with  "S'likofF-the-Turk  and  the  contractor. 
^'^ikof!^  nicknamed  the  Turk,  because  he  really 
was  descended  from  a  Turkish  woman  captive, 
was  ill  soul  an  artist  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
and  by  profession  a  moulder  in  the  paper-mill 
of  a  merchant;  as  for  the  contractor,  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  i-(?sourceful  and  dashing  town- 
dweller  of  the  burgher  class.  But  it  is  worth 
while  to  speak  in  more  detail  concerning  the 
Wild  (ientleman. 

The  first  impression  which  the  as})ect  of  this 
man   made   upon   you   was   a  sensation   of  some 

86 


THE  SINGERS 

coarse,  heavy  but  irresistible  force.  He  was  avvk- 
vvardly  Iniilt,  "  flung  together,"  as  our  expression 
runs,  but  he  exhaled  an  atmosphere  of  invincible 
health,  and,  strange  to  say,  his  ursine  figure 
was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  peculiar  grace,  enia^ 
nating,  possibly,  from  perfectly  composed  confi- 
dence in  his  own  might.  It  was  difficult  to  de- 
cide, ofF-hand,  to  A\'hat  social  class  this  Hercules 
belonged;  he  resembled  neither  a  house-serf  noi- 
a  biu'gher,  nor  an  impoverished  pettifogger  out 
of  a  job,  nor  a  ruined  nobleman  of  small  estate — 
a  keeper  of  dogs  and  bully:  in  truth,  he  was 
a  unique  specimen.  Xo  one  knew  whence  he  had 
descended  upon  our  district;  it  was  said  that  liis 
ancestors  had  been  peasant-freeholders,^  and  it 
was  supposed  that  he  had  formerly  been  in  the 
government  service  somewhere,  but  no  one  knew 
anything  definite  in  regard  to  that;  and  from 
whom  were  they  to  find  out — certainly  not  from 
the  man  himself :  there  never  was  a  more  taciturn 
and  surly  person.  Moreover,  no  one  could  say 
with  authority  what  were  his  means  of  subsis- 
tence ;  he  cccupied  himself  with  no  handicraft,  he 
visited  no  one,  he  knew  hardly  any  one,  yet  he 
was  supplied  with  money, — not  much,  to  tell  the 
truth,  but  enough.  His  demeanour  was  not  pre-, 
cisely  unassuming, — on  the  w^iole,  there  was  no- 
thing unassuming  about  him, — but  quiet :  he  lived 
as  thouo^h  he  did  not  notice  any  one  around  him, 

1  See  the  sketch  in  Vol.  I,  "  Freeholder  Ovsyanikoff,"  p.  98. 

87 


MK.MOIKS   OF  A   SPOHTSMAX 

ami  (It'citlctUv  stood  in  no  need  of  anv  one.  The 
\Vild  (ientlenian  (sueli  was  the  nieknanie  whicli 
liad  been  eonfefred  upon  him:  but  his  real  name 
was  Perevlyesoff )  enjoyed  immense  intiuenee 
throui^iiout  the  whole  eountryside ;  people  yieldetl 
him  instantaneous  and  Avilling  obedience,  al- 
tbouuh  he  not  onlv  liad  no  shadow  of  rii>ht  to 
issue  orders  to  any  one  whomsoever,  hut  did  not 
even  manifest  the  slightest  pretensions  to  the  obe- 
dience of  the  people  with  Mhom  he  came  into  con- 
tact. He  s[)()ke, — he  was  oheyed;  power  always 
asserts  its  rights.  He  drank  hardly  any  licjuor, 
did  not  consort  with  women,  and  was  passionately 
fond  of  singing.  There  was  a  great  deal  that  was 
mysterious  about  this  man;  it  seemed  as  thouffh 
some  \  ast  forces  or  other  were  morosely  reposing 
within  iiim,  as  though  aware  that,  having  once 
risen  up,  having  once  broken  loose,  they  were 
bound  to  destroy  both  themselves  and  evervthina' 
with  wliich  they  should  come  into  contact;  and  I 
am  greatly  mistaken,  if  such  an  outburst  had  not 
already  taken  place  in  that  man's  life,  if  he, 
taught  l)y  experience  and  barely  rescued  from 
perdition,  were  not  now  holding  a  very  tight  rein 
over  himself.  AVhat  especially  struck  me  in  him 
was  tlu  mixture  of  a  certain  innate,  natural 
fii  rceness  and  an  e(iually  innate  nobility, — a  mix- 
tuie  wliicli  I  jiave  never  encountered  in  any  one 
else. 

So  tlien.  tiie  contractor  stepped  forward,  half^ 

88 


TITE   SINGEHS 

closed  liis  eyes,  and  began  to  sing  in  a  high  fal- 
setto. His  voice  wrfs  tolerably  agreeable  and 
sweet,  although  somewhat  husky ;  he  played  with 
his  voice  and  flung  it  about  like  a  whirligig,  inces- 
santly trilling  and  executing  roulades  in  a  de- 
scending scale,  and  incessantly  returning  to  his 
upper  notes,  which  he  held  and  drew  out  with  pe- 
culiar pains,  then  paused,  and  again  suddenly 
took  up  his  former  refrain  with  a  certain  daring, 
s])irited  dash.  His  transitions  were  sometimes 
quite  bold,  sometimes  quite  amusing:  they  would 
have  afforded  connoisseurs  great  satisfaction;  a 
German  would  have  been  enraged  by  them.  He 
was  a  Russian  tenorc  di  grazia,  tenor  leger.  He 
sang  a  merry  dance-tune,  the  words  of  which,  so 
far  as  I  could  make  them  out  amid  the  inter- 
minable ornamentation,  the  supplementary  con- 
sonants and  exclamations,  were  as  follows : 

« 
"  I  '11  plough,  will  I,  the  stripling  young, 

A  little  patch  of  ground : 

I  '11  sow,  will  I,  the  stripling  3'oung, 

A  little  flower  of  scarlet  hue." 

He  sang;  all  listened  to  him  with  great  atten- 
tion. He  evidently  felt  that  he  had  to  deal  with 
people  who  were  good  judges,  and  therefore,  as 
the  saying  is,  he  fairly  "  crawled  out  of  his  skin  " 
in  his  efforts.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  people  in  am- 
parts  are  good  judges  of  singing,  and  not  with- 

89 


MK.MUIHS   UF   A    SPORTSMAN 

out  cause  is  tilt'  \illagc'  oi'  Scrgicvskoe,  on  the 
givat  Orel  higliuay,  reno%vned  throughout  the 
whole  of  Hussia  for  its  pecuharly  agreeable  and 
hannonioMs  nielodv.  For  a  long  time  the  con- 
traetor  continued  to  sing,  witliout  evoking  any 
special  sympalliy  in  his  hearers. 

lit  lacked  the  su])p()rt  of  a  chorus;  at  last,  at 
one  [)articulai"ly  successful  passage,  which  made 
even  the  Wild  (ientleman  smile,  The  Ninny  could 
contain  liiniself  no  longer,  and  shouted  aloud  with 
delight.  K\ery  one  gave  a  start.  The  Ninny 
and  Blinker  began  to  hum  in  an  undertone,  to 
accompany  Iiini.  and  to  shout:  "  That 's  a  dandy! 

(ro    ahead,    thou    rascal!    .    .    .    Go 

ahead,  keep  on,  thou  brigand!  Lash  out  again! 
Split  thy  throat  again,  thou  dog,  thou  hound! 
.  .  .   Let    Herod    slav    thy    soul!"  .  .  .  and    so 

«  ^ 

forth.  Nikolai  Ivanitch,  behind  his  counter, 
nodded  his  head  to  right  and  left  in  approbation. 
At  last.  The  Ninny  began  to  stamp  his  feet,  to 
shift  from  foot  to  foot,  and  to  twitch  his  shoul- 
(leis,  and  ^'akoff^s  eyes  fairly  blazed  up  like 
coals  of  tire,  and  he  (juivered  all  over  like  a  leaf, 
and  smiled  flabbily.  The  Wild  Gentleman  alone 
did  not  change  countenance,  and,  as  before,  did 
not  stir  from  his  seat;  but  his  gaze,  riveted  upon 
the  contractoi-,  l)ecame  somewhat  softer,  although 
the  exj)rcssion  of  his  lips  remained  scornful.  En- 
couraged by  these  tokens  of  universal  approval, 
the  contractor  became  a  perfect  Avbirlwind,  and 

90 


TllK   SlXCiEHS 

began  to  emit  such  fioriturc,  clicked  and  drummed 
so  with  his  tongue,  made  liis  throat  perform  such 
frantic  feats,  that  wlien,  at  hist,  exhausted,  pale, 
and  drenched  in  l)()iling  perspiration,  he  threw 
his  whole  body  backward  and  gave  vent  to  a  final 
expiring  outcry,  a  general  unanimous  shout  re- 
sponded to  him  in  a  vehement  outburst.  The 
Ninny  flung  himself  upon  his  neck,  and  began  to 
choke  him  with  his  long,  bony  arms;  on  Nikolai 
Ivanitch's  fat  face  a  flush  broke  forth,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  grown  young  again;  Yakoff 
shouted  like  a  madman:  "Well  done!  well 
done!  "  ' — even  my  neighbour,  the  peasant  in  the 
torn  smock,  could  not  contain  himself,  and  smit- 
ing the  table  with  his  flst,  he  shouted:  "A-ha! 
good,  devil  take  it— 't  is  good !  " — and  spat  de- 
cisively to  one  side, 

"  Well,  brother,  thou  hast  diverted  us!  " — cried 
The  Ninny,  without  releasing  the  exhausted  con- 
tractor from  his  embrace, — "  thou  hast  diverted 
us,  there's  no  denying  that!  Thou  hast  won, 
brother,  thou  hast  won !  I  congratulate  thee, — the 
measure  of  beer  is  thine!  Yashka  is  far  behind 
thee.  .  .  .  Just  mark  what  I  am  saying  to  thee: 
thou  'rt  far  ahead  of  him.  .  .  .  Believe  me ! " 
(And  again  he  clasped  the  contractor  to  his 
breast.) 

"  Come,    let   him    go,    let   him    go,    thou    nui- 

'  Literally:  "Fine,  dashing  young   fellow."      Possibly,  "Bully   for 
you  !  "  would  be  the  more  accurate  translation. — Translator. 

91 


M 


MOIHS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 


siinee  .  .  ."  said  IJlii.ker,  with  vexation:— "  let 
IniM  sit  (1..NM1  nil  the  heiieh ;  dost  not  thou  see 
he's  tired!  .  .  .  What  a  ninny  thou  art,  my  good 
iVIL.w.  really,  a  ninny !  Wliy  dost  thou  stick  to 
him  lilaa  hath-leaiT' ^ 

•  Will,  all  light,  let  liim  sit  down,  and  I  '11 
drinU  t..  his  health,' —said  The  Ninny,  steppmg 
up  to  Ilk-  eounter.— "  At  thy  expense,  brother," — 
lie  added,  addressing  the  contractor. 

'Vhc  latter  nodded  in  assent,  seated  himself  on 
till-  IkmcIi.  i)ulled  a  towel  out  of  his  cap,  and  be- 
gan to  mop  his  face;  hut  The  Ninny,  with  greedy 
liaste,  (h-ained  his  glass,  and,  accordmg  to  the  cus- 
tom of  confirmed  drunkards,  he  assumed  a 
grieved  and  careworn  aspect. 

"  Tiion  singest  well,  brother,  well," — i-emarked 
Nikolai  Ivanitcli,  caressingly. — "And  nov.^  'tis 
tliv  turn,  ^'ashka:  look  out,  don't  be  timid.  Let 's 
see  who  s  who;  let's  see.  .  .  But  the  contractor 
sinus  well, — hv  heaven,  he  does!  " 

"  Very  well,  indeed," — remarked  Nikolai  Ivan- 
itch's  wife,  glancing  at  Yakoff  with  a  smile. 

"Wry  well  indee-ed!"  repeated  my  neigh- 
hour,  in  a!i  undertone. 

■  llev,  Savage-Polvekha!  "  ^  suddenly  roared 

'  The  usual  l)ath-i)esoin,  for  agreeable  massage  after  the  steain- 
l)ath,  is  a  fan-like  hiincii  of  hircli-hraiiclies,  with  the  leaves  left  on, 
and  (ii|)i>e(l  in  hot  water  to  i)revent  tiieir  falling  off.  Sometimes 
the  peasants  use  htniches  of  nettles. — Transi.atok. 

'Tlie  inhaliitants  of  southern  Polyesye  are  called  Polyekhi. 
'I'he  I'oiyesyi-  is  a  long  forest  tract  which  hegins  at  tiie  hoiiiulary 
of  tlic  HolklKiff  ami  Zhizdra  districts.     Its  iiihahitants  are  distin- 

92 


THE  SINGERS 

The  Ninny,  and  stalking  np  to  the  peasant  with 
the  hole  on  his  shoulder,  he  pointed  his  finger  at 
him,  began  to  skip  about,  and  burst  into  a  peal  oi' 
laughter.  —  "A  Polyekha!  a  Polyekha!  Ha, 
bddijc,^  drive  on.  Savage?  Why  hast  thou  fa- 
voured us  with  thy  company? "  he  shouted, 
through  his  laughter.  The  poor  peasant  was  dis- 
concerted, and  was  making  ready  to  rise  and  de- 
part as  speedily  as  possible,  when  suddenly  the 
Wild  Gentleman's  brazen  voice  rang  out: 

"  Why,  what  intolerable  animal  is  this?  " — he 
ejacidated,  gnashing  his  teeth. 

"I  didn't  do  anythhig,"  ^ — mumbled  The 
Ninny: — "I  didn't  do  anything.  ...  I  only 
just  .  .  .  ." 

"Well,  very  good,  hold  thy  tongue!" — re- 
torted the  Wild  Gentleman. — "  YakofF,  begin!  " 

Yatoff  clutched  his  throat  w  ith  his  hand. 

"  Well,  brother,  you  know  .  .  .  somehow  .  .  . 
H'm  .  .  .  .  I  don't  know,  really,  somehow,  you 
know  .  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  have  done  with  that,  don't  get  fright- 
ened. Art  ashamed?  .  .  .  Why  dost  thou  wrig- 
gle?   Sing  as  God  j^rompts  thee." 

And  the  Wild  Gentleman  lowered  his  eyes  in 
anticipation. 

guished  by  many  peculiarities  in  their  manner  of  life,  customs, 
and  dialect.  Tliey  are  called  savages  because  of  tlieir  suspicious 
and  dull  dlsjiositioii. 

'  The  Polyekhi  add  the  exclamation  "■  ha  !  "  to  nearly  every  word, 
also  "  oddye."  The  Ninny  says  "  panyai "  instead  of  "pogon- 
ydi "    ("drive  on"),  also  in  mimicry. 

93 


MK.MOIHS  OF  A   SrOUTSMAN 

^';ll^nlr  lifid  his  peace  for  a  little,  cast  a 
glaiKc  loiiml  him,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
liand.  Kverv  one  fairlv  bored  into  him  with  his 
eyes,  especially  tlie  contractor,  upon  whose  coun- 
tenance, athwart  his  wonted  self-assurance,  and 
the  triumph  of  success,  there  broke  forth  a  faint, 
in\()hintary  uneasiness.  He  leaned  back  against 
tile  wall  and  a«4ain  tucked  both  his  hands  under 
him.  hut  \\v  \\n  longer  swung  his  feet  to  and 
fro.  W'luii.  at  last,  Vakoff  uncovered  his  face, 
it  ^^  as  i)ale  as  that  of  a  corpse,  and  his  eyes  barely 
gleamed  through  his  lowered  lashes.  He  heaved 
a  deep  sigh,  and  began  to  sing.  .  .  .  The 
first  sound  of  his  voice  was  weak  and  uneven, 
and.  aj)parently,  did  not  emanate  from  his  chest, 
but  was  wafted  from  some  distant  place,  as 
though  it  had  flown  accidentally  into  the  room. 
This  tremulous,  ringing  sound  had  a  strange 
eft'ect  on  all  of  us;  we  glanced  at  one  another, 
and  Xikolai  Ivanitch's  wife  actually  straight- 
ened Iierself  up.  This  first  sound  was  followed 
by  another,  more  firm  and  prolonged,  but  still 
<)b\iouslv  tremulous,  like  a  chord  when,  suddenly 
resounding  beneath  a  strong  finger,  it  quivers 
with  a  final,  expiring  tremor;  the  second  note 
was  followed  by  a  third,  and,  gradually,  warm- 
ing II J)  and  broadening,  a  melancholy  song 
poured  lorth. 

"  Not  one  path  alone  in  the  field  is  trodden," 

94 


THE  SINGERS 

he  sang,  and  we  all  felt  sweetness  and  sadness  in 
our  hearts.     I  am  bound  to  confess,  that  rarely 
have  I  heard  such  a  voice:  it  was  slightly  broken, 
and  had  a  cracked  ring ;  at  first  it  even  had  a  sort 
of  sickly  sound;  but  it  contained  both  genuine 
and  profound  passion,  and  youth,  and  power,  and 
sweetness,  and  a  certain  captivatingly-care-free, 
despondent  pain.     iVn  upright,  burning,  Russian 
soul   resounded   and   breathed   in   it,   and   fairly 
gripped  our  hearts,  laid  hold  directly  upon  their 
Russian  chords.    'The  song  swelled  and  broad- 
ened.    Yakoff,  evidently,  had  been  seized  with  a 
fit  of  rapture ;  he  was  no  longer  timid,  he  surren- 
dered himself  wholly  to  his  bliss;  his  voice  no 
longer    trembled, — it    quivered,    but    with    that 
barely    perceptible    inward    quiver    of    passion, 
which  pierces  the  soul  of  the  hearer  like  an  arrow, 
and  grew  constantly  stronger,  firmer,  more  volu- 
minous.    I  remember  having  seen,  once  upon  a 
time,  of  an  evening,  at  ebb-tide,  on  the  flat,  sandy 
shore  of  the  sea,  which  was  roaring  menacingly 
and  heavily  in  the  distance,  a  large  white  sea-gull ; 
it  was  sitting  motionless,   with   its  silky  breast 
exposed  to  the  crimson  glow  of  the  sunset,  and 
only  now  and  then  did  it  slowly  spread  its  long 
wings    in    the    direction    of    its    familiar    ocean, 
toward  the  purpling  sun :  I  recalled  that  sea-gull 
as  I  listened  to  Yakoff.     He  sang  on,  utterly 
oblivious  of  his  rival,  and  of  us  all,  but  evidently 
upborne,  like  a  \'igorous  swimmer  by  the  waves, 

95 


MKMOIIJS   OF   A    SrORTS^rAX 

Ity  our  siknt.  passionate  interest.  He  sang,  and 
every  sound  of  his  voice  breatlied  forth  something 
which  was  akin  to  us,  and  boundlessly  vast,  as 
though  the  familiar  steppes  were  unrolling  them- 
selves iR'fore  us,  stretching  out  into  the  illimitable 
distance.  I  felt  that  tears  were  gathering  in  my 
heart,  and  welling  up  into  my  eyes;  dull,  sup- 
pressed   .sobs    suddenly    startled    me I 

glanced  around — the  i)ublican's  wife  was  weep- 
ing, bent   forwaid,   witli  her  bo.som  against  the 
window.     Viikoff'  shot  a  swift  glance  at  her,  and 
l)egan    to    warble    even    more    sweetly    than    be- 
fore.   Nikolai  Ivanitch  dropped  his  eyes;  Blinker 
turned    away:    The    Xinny,    completely    melted, 
stood  with  his  mouth  stupidly  agape;  the  grey 
little   peasant  was  sobbing  softly  in  his  corner, 
shaking  Iiis  head  with  a  bitter  whisper;  and  across 
the  iron   face  of  the  Wild  Gentleman,  from  be- 
neath his  l)rows,  which  were  completely  contracted 
in  a   frown,  a  heavy  tear  was  trickling  slowdy; 
tli(  contractor  raised  his  clenched  fist  to  his  brow, 
and  (lid  not  stir.  ...   I  know^  not  in  what  the  uni- 
versal anguish  would  have  culminated,  had  not 
^'akoff'  suddeidy  wound  up  on  a  liigh,  remarka- 
bly thin  note— as  though  his  voice  had  broken  off 
short.     Xo  one  cried  out,  no  one  even  stirred;  all 
.seemed  to  be  waiting  to  see  whether  he  would  not 
sing  some  more;  but  he  opened  his  eyes,  as  though 
suri)rised  at  oin-  silence,  surveyed  us  all  with  an 
HKjuiriiig  glance,  and  saw  that  the  victory  was 
liis.  .  .  . 

96 


THE   SINGERS 

"  Yjishka," — said  the  W'^ild  Gentleman,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and — said  no  more. 

We  all  stood  as  though  stunned.  The  con- 
tractor rose  softly,  and  stepped  up  to  YakofF. — 
"  Thou  ....  thy  ....  thou  hast  won," — he 
enunciated  at  last  with  difficulty,  and  rushed 
headlong  from  the  room. 

His  swift,  decisive  movement  seemed  to  hreak 
the  spell:  all  suddenly  hegan  to  talk  noisily,  joy- 
ously. The  Ninny  gave  an  upward  leap,  stam- 
mered, fluttered  his  arms  like  the  wings  of  a  wind- 
mill; Blinker  hohhled  up  to  YakofF  and  began  to 
kiss  him;  Nikolai  Ivanitch  half  rose,  and  sol- 
emnly announced  that  he  would  add  an  extra 
measure  of  beer  on  his  account.  The  Wild  Gen- 
tleman laughed  with  a  good-natured  sort  of 
laugh,  which  I  had  never  expected  to  encounter 
on  his  face ;  the  wretched  little  peasant  kept  reit- 
erating in  his  corner,  as  he  wiped  his  eyes,  cheeks, 
nose,  and  beard  with  both  his  sleeves:  "  But  'tis 
good, — by  heaven,  't  is  good !  Well,  now,  I  '11  re- 
nounce my  parents  and  become  a  dog  if  it  is  n't 
good!  "  while  Nikolai  Ivanitch's  wife,  all  flushed, 
rose  hastily  and  withdrew.  YakofF  enjoyed  his 
victory  like  a  child ;  his  whole  face  was  trans- 
figured; his  eyes,  in  particular,  fairly  beamed 
with  hap])iness.  He  was  dragged  to  the  counter; 
he  called  to  him  the  tear-sodden  peasant,  de- 
spatched the  tapster's  little  son  for  the  contractor, 
whom  the  boy  did  not  find,  however,  and  the  ca- 
rouse  began. — "  Thou   wilt   sing   for  us   again, 

97 


MKMOIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

tlion  wilt  sing  lor  us  until  the  evening,"  The 
Ninny    lapt    irpeating,    raising    his    hands    on 

hiiifli. 

1  east  one  more  ghuice  at  YakofF,  and  de- 
parted. I  di<l  not  wisli  to  remain, — I  was  afraid 
ol'  spoiling  my  imi)ressi()n.  lint  the  sultry  heat 
was  as  unhearahle  as  ever.  It  seemed  to  he  hang- 
ing elose  to  the  \ery  earth,  in  a  dense,  heavy 
stratum;  in  the  dark-l)lue  sky,  eertain  tiny,  bright 
flames  seemed  to  he  whirling  about,  athwart  the 
very  fine,  almost  blaek  dust.  All  was  silent;  there 
was  something  hopeless,  oppressive  in  that  pro- 
found silenee  of  debilitated  nature.  I  wended 
ni\    wav  to  the  hav-loft  and  lav  down  on  the 

•  •  •  ^ 

fresh l\-mown  but  already  almost  dry  grass.  For 
a  long  time  1  did  not  fall  asleep;  for  a  long  time, 

\'jikofr\s  irresistible  voice  rang  in  my  ears 

At  last  the  heat  and  my  fatigue  asserted  their 
rights,  however,  and  I  sank  into  a  death-like 
slumbei-.  \\'hen  I  awoke,  all  was  dark;  the  grass 
scattered  round  about  emitted  a  strong  fra- 
grance, and  had  grown  somewhat  damp;  through 
the  thin  boards  of  the  half-open  roof  pale  little 
stars  were  twinkling.  I  went  outside.  The  sun- 
set glow  had  long  since  died  out,  and  its  last  traces 
were  biirelv  visible,  like  a  w^hite  streak  on  the 
liorizon ;  but  in  the  air,  recently  red-hot,  warmth 
was  still  perceptible  athwart  the  nocturnal  cool- 
ness, and  the  lungs  still  thirsted  for  a  cold  blast. 
There  was  no  breeze,  there  was  not  even  a  cloud; 

98 


THE  SINGERS 

round  about,  tlic  sky  was  perfectly  clear  and 
transparently-dark,  softly  scintillating  with  in- 
numerable but  barely  visible  stars.  Eights 
gleamed  in  the  village;  from  the  brilliantly- 
lighted  dram-shop  hard  by  was  wafted  a  con- 
fused, discordant  uproar,  amid  which  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  recognised  YakofF's  voice.  Shrill 
laughter  arose  thence  in  gusts,  from  time  to  time. 
I  stepped  up  to  the  tiny  window,  and  pressed  my 
face  to  the  pane.  I  beheld  a  cheerless,  though 
motley  and  lively  picture:  everybody  was  drunk 
— everybody,  beginning  with  Yakoff.  He  was 
sitting,  with  bared  breast,  on  the  wall-bench,  and 
singing  in  a  hoarse  voice  some  dancing-tune  of 
the  street,  as  lie  lazily  ran  his  fingers  over  and 
twanged  the  strings  of  a  guitar.  His  damp  hair 
hung  in  elf-locks  over  his  horribly  pale  face.  In 
the  middle  of  the  dram-shop,  The  Ninny,  com- 
pletely "  unscrewed  "  and  minus  his  kaftan,  was 
dancing  with  leaps  and  s(i[uattings  in  front  of  the 
peasant  in  the  greyish  armyak;  the  miserable 
little  peasant,  in  his  turn,  was  stamping  and 
shuffling  his  enfeebled  feet  with  difficidty,  and 
smiling  foolishly  through  his  dishevelled  beard, 
and  flourished  one  hand  from  time  to  time,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "I  don't  care  a  rap  for  anybody!" 
Nothing  could  be  more  ridiculous  than  his  face: 
no  matter  how  much  he  twitched  his  brows  up- 
ward, his  fatigue-laden  lids  would  not  rise,  and 
continued  to  lie  upon  the  barely  perceptible,  in 

99 


M  KM  OIKS   OF  A   SPORTS:SIAN 

toxicateil.  hut  si  ill  very  sweet  little  eyes.  He  was 
in  the  eii«,^a«4iii«>-  eoiulitioii  of  a  man  who  has  got 
thoroughly  tipsy,  when  every  passer-by, on  glanc- 
ing at  his  I'aee,  will  infallibly  say:  " 'T  is  good, 
brothtr.  t  is  good!"  Blinker,  all  scarlet  as  a 
eraylish,  and  u  itli  his  nostrils  widely  inflated,  was 
jeering  spitefully  from  a  corner;  Nikolai  Ivan- 
itch  alone,  as  is  befitting  a  genuine  publican,  pre- 
served his  invariable  coolness.  A  number  of  new 
individuals  had  assembled  in  the  room;  but  I  did 
not  see  the  Wild  (ientleman  among  them. 

I  turned  away,  and  with  swift  steps  began  to 
descend  the  hill  on  which  Kolotovka  lies.  At  the 
foot  of  this  hill,  the  broad  ravine  spreads  out;  sub- 
merged in  the  misty  billows  of  the  evening  fog, 
it  appeared  more  limitless  than  ever,  and  seemed 
to  merge  into  the  darkened  sky.  I  was  proceed- 
ing with  great  strides  on  the  road  which  runs 
along  the  precipice,  when  suddenh',  far  away  in 
tlie  ravine,  there  rang  out  the  resonant  voice  of  a 
boy. — "Antropka!  iVntropka-a-a!  " — it  shouted 
in  persistent  and  tearful  desperation,  prolonging 
tile  last  syllable  for  a  very,  very  long  time. 

He  st()j)i)ed  for  a  few  moments,  and  again  be- 
gan to  shout.  His  voice  rang  out  sonorously  on 
the  MH'tionless,  lightly-slumbering  air.  Thirty 
times,  at  least,  had  he  shouted  the  name  of  An- 
tropka, wiien  suddenly  from  the  opposite  end  of 
the  field,  as  though  from  another  world,  the 
barely  audible  reply  was  wafted: 

100 


THE  SINGERS 

"Wlia-ca-aaat?" 

The  boy's  voice  instantly  shouted  with  joyous 
wrath : 

"  Come  hither,  thou  devil,  thou  forest-fi-i-i- 
iend!  " 

"  Why-y-y-y  ?  "—replied  the  second  voice, 
after  a  long  pause. 

"  Why,  because  thy  daddy  wants  to  spa-a-a-a- 
ank  thee," — hastily  shouted  the  first  voice. 

The  second  voice  did  not  respond  again,  and 
again  the  boy  began  to  call  Antropka.  His 
shouts,  which  grew  ever  weaker  and  more  infre- 
quent, still  continued  to  reach  my  ear,  when  it  had 
already  grown  completely  dark,  and  I  was  dou- 
bling the  edge  of  the  forest  which  surrounded  my 
hamlet  and  was  situated  four  versts  from  Ko- 
lotovka 

"  Antropka-a-a!  "  seemed  to  be  still  audible  in 
the  air,  filled  with  the  shades  of  night. 


101 


I'lOTK    I'KTKOVITCH   KARATAEFF 

Five  years  ago,  in  autuniii,  I  was  compelled  to  sit 
for  almost  an  entire  day  in  a  postiiig-Iiouse  on  the 
Iiiiiiiwav  from  Moscow  to  Tula,  for  lack  of 
horses.  I  was  returning  from  a  hunting-expedi- 
tion, and  had  heen  so  incautious  as  to  send  my 
troika  on  ahead.  The  superintendent,  a  surly 
fellow,  alieady  aged,  with  hair  which  hung  over 
his  nose,  and  tiny,  sleepy  eyes,  replied  to  all  my 
eomi)laints  and  requests  by  a  growl,  slammed  the 
door  \\  i-atiil'nlly,  as  tliough  cursing  his  own  office, 
and  emerging  upon  the  porch,  set  to  berating  the 
2>ostilions,  who  were  slowly  tramping  through 
the  mud  with  arches  weighing  about  forty 
]>oun(ls  apiece  in  their  arms,  or  were  sitting  on 
the  l)ench,  yawning  and  scratching  their  heads, 
and  paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  angry  ex- 
clamations of  their  superior.  I  had  already  set 
to  woi'k  three  times  to  drink  tea,  I  had  several 
times  \ainly  endeavoured  to  get  to  sleep,  I  had 
perused  all  the  inscriptions  on  the  windows  and 
on  the  walls;  1  wds  oppressed  by  frightful  te- 
dium. I  was  staring  with  chill  and  hoj)eless  de- 
spair at  tlu'  upturned  shafts  of  my  tarantas,  when 

102 


PIOTR  PETROVITCH   KARATAEFF 

suddenly  a  small  hell  resounded,  and  a  little  cart, 
drawn  by  three  weary  horses,  drew  up  hefore  the 
porch.  The  newcomer  sprang  from  his  cart,  and 
witli  tlie  shout:  "  Horses,  and  be  quick  about  it!  " 
entered  the  room.  Wliile  he  listened,  with  the 
customary  strange  surprise,  to  the  superinten- 
dent's reply,  that  there  were  no  horses,  1  suc- 
ceeded, witli  tlie  eager  curiosity  of  a  bored  man, 
in  scanning  my  new  companion  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  glance.  Apparently,  he  was  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  The  smallpox  had  left  ineffaceable 
traces  on  his  face,  which  was  harsh  and  yellow, 
with  an  unpleasant  brazen  tint;  his  long,  bluish- 
black  hair  fell  in  rings  upon  his  collar  behind,  in 
front  it  curled  in  dashing  ringlets  on  the  temples ; 
his  small,  swollen  eyes  had  sight,  and  that  was  all ; 
on  his  upper  lip,  several  small  hairs  stuck  out. 
He  was  dressed  like  a  dissolute  landed  proprietor, 
a  frequenter  of  liorse-fairs,  in  a  flowered  Cauca- 
sian overcoat,  considerably  soiled,  a  faded  silk 
neckerchief  of  lilac  hue,  a  waistcoat  with  brass 
buttons,  and  grey  trousers  with  huge  bell-bot- 
toms, from  beneath  which  the  tips  of  his  un- 
cleaned  boots  were  barely  visible.  He  reeked 
strongly  of  tobacco  and  vodka;  on  his  fat,  red 
fingers,  which  were  almost  covered  by  the  sleeves 
of  the  overcoat,  silver  and  Tiila  rings  of  gold  and 
black  steel  were  discernible.  Such  figures  are 
to  be  encountered  in  Russia  not  by  the  dozen  but 
by  the  hundred ;  acquaintance  with  them,  truth  to 

103 


MKMOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

tell,  (Iocs  not  all'ord  any  pleasure  whatever,  but, 
in  spite  of  the  prejudice  wherewith  I  surveyed 
the  newcomer,  1  could  not  but  notice  the  uncon- 
cernedly good-natured  and  passionate  expression 
of  his  face. 

"  Tiiey  '  have  been  waiting  here  for  more  than 
an  hour,  sir,"— said  the  superintendent,  pointing 

at  me. 

More    than    an    hour! — The    malefactor    was 

making  fun  of  me. 

■  Hut  perhai)s  he  does  not  need  them  so  badly," 
—  replied  the  newcomer. 

"  We  can't  tell  about  that,  sir," — ^^said  the  su- 
l)erintendent,  surlily. 

"  And  is  n't  it  possible  to  manage  it  in  some 
way  ^   ^Vre  there  positively  no  horses?  " 

"  Can't  be   done,   sir.      There   is  n't   a   single 
lorse. 

"  \W'll,  then,  order  the  samovar  to  be  brought 
lor  me.     I  '11  wait,  there  's  nothing  else  to  be 
one. 

The  newcomer  seated  himself  on  the  wall- 
bench,  flung  his  cap  on  the  table,  and  passed  his 
hand  over  his  hair. 

"And    have    you    already    drunk    tea?" — he 
asked  me. 
1  es. 

"  Won't  you  drink  again,  to  keep  me  com- 
pany? " 

'Respectful   form    for  "he." — Translator. 

104. 


PIOTR   PETKOVITCH   KARATAEFF 

I  consented.  The  fat,  reddisli  sinnovar  made 
its  appearance  on  the  table  for  the  fonrth  time, 
I  prodnced  a  bottle  of  rnm.  I  had  made  no  mis- 
take in  taking  .my  interlocutor  for  a  noble  of 
small  estate.  His  name  was  Piotr  Petrovitch 
Karataeif. 

We  entered  into  conversation.  Half  an  hour 
had  not  elapsed  since  his  arrival  before  he,  with 
the  most  good-humoured  frankness,  had  related 
to  me  the  story  of  his  life. 

"  Now  I  'm  going  to  Moscow,"^ — he  said  to  me, 
as  he  drained  his  fourth  cup: — "  there  's  nothing 
more  for  me  to  do  in  the  country  now." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Just  because  there  is  n't  .  .  .  not  a  thing. 
My  farming  operations  are  thoroughly  disor- 
ganised, I  have  ruined  the  peasants,  I  must 
confess;  we  have  had  bad  years;  poor  harvests, 
various  calamities,  you  know.  .  .  .  And  besides," — 
he  added,  with  a  dejected  glance  aside: — "  I  'm 
no  sort  of  a  landlord !  " 

"  How  so?  " 

"  Because  I  'm  not,"  —  he  interrupted  me. 
"  There  are  geod  landlords  of  a  very  different 
sort  from  me.  See  here,  now," — he  went  on, 
twisting  his  head  on  one  side,  and  sucking  dili- 
gently at  his  pipe: — "  Perhaps  you  are  thinking, 
as  you  look  at  me,  that  I — you  know  ....  but 
I  must  admit  to  you,  that  I  received  a  medio- 
cre education ;  means  were  lacking.     You  must 

105 


MK.MUIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 
excuse    inc,    1  "in    an    outspoken    man,    and    in 

.slldlt    .... 

*  Uv  (lid  not  finish  liis  remark  and  waved  his 
hand.  I  he«ian  to  assure  him,  that  lie  was  in  error, 
that  1  was  very  <>lad  that  we  had  met,  and  so 
lorth,  after  whieh  I  remarked  that,  for  the  man- 
aiiement  of  an  estate,  too  intense  culture  was  not 
necessary,  apparently. 

"Agreed," — he  replied: — "I  agree  with  you. 
Hut  nevertheless,  a  certain  special  inchnation  is 
retjuisite!  One  man  will  do  God  knows  what,  and 
it 's  all  right!  hut  I  .  .  .  .  Permit  me  to  inquire, 
are  you  I'rom  Peter  ^  or  from  jNIoscow?  " 

"  1  am  from  Petersburg." 

lie  emitted  a  long  wreath  of  smoke  through  his 
nosti'ils. 

"  And  1  'm  going  to  ]SIoscow  to  enter  the  gov- 
eniment  service." 

"  Where  do  you  intend  to  establish  yourself?  " 

"That  I  don't  know:  as  fortune  favours.  I 
must  confess  to  vou,  that  I  'm  afraid  of  the  ser- 
\  ice:  the  first  y{ni  know,  you  incur  some  responsi- 
bilitv.  I  have  alwavs  lived  in  the  countrv;  I  'm 
used  to  that,  you  know  ....  but  there's  no 
help  foi-  it  ...  .  necessity  compels!  Okh,  hang 
that  necessity!  " 

■'()ii  the  other  hand,  you  will  reside  in  the 
ca|)ital.'' 

^'c  s,  ill  the  capital   ....   well,  I  don't  know 

'  Abbreviation  of  St.  Petersburg. — Tuaxslatoh. 

lOG 


PIOTR  PETKOVITCII   KARATAEFF 

what  there  is  good  there,  in  the  capital.  We  shall 
see,  perhaps  it  is  good.  .  .  .  But  I  think  that  i\p- 
thing  can  be  better  than  the  countiy." 

"  But  is  it  impossible  for  you  to  live  in  the 
country  any  longer  if  " 

He  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  It  is.    The  village  is  hardly  mine  any  more." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Why,  a  kind  man  there — a  neighbour  has  in- 
stituted ....  a  lawsuit there  was  a 

note   of   hand "     Poor    Piotr    Petrovitch 

passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  meditated,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Well,  never  mind!  ....  But  I  must  ad- 
mit,"— he  added,  after  a  brief  pause: — "  I  have 
no  complaint  to  make  of  any  one,  I  myself  am  to 
blame.  I  was  fond  of  having  my  own  way, — 
devil  take  it,  I  was  fond  of  showing  my  inde- 
pendence! " 

"Did  you  live  in  jolly  style  in  the  country? " 
— I  asked  him. 

"  Sir," — he  answered  me,  pausing  between  his 
words,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  eye, — "  I 
had  twelve  leashes  of  greyhounds, — such  grey- 
hounds, I  must  tell  you,  are  rare."  (He  pro- 
nounced this  last  word  with  a  drawl.) — "They 
would  shake  the  life  out  of  a  hare  on  the  instant, 
and  as  for  deer, — they  were  serpents,  regular 
asps.  But  that 's  a  thing  of  the  past  now,  there  's 
no  use  in  lying  about  it.     I  used  to  hunt  with  a 

107 


Ml.MolKS   OF   A    SPOKTSMAX 

^aiM.       1    had    a    do^'.     Koiiteska:    a    remarkable 
pointer,  slit-   took  c\{.'rvtliiiig    by   her  extremely 
tine  seent.      I   used   to  approaeh  the  marsh,  and 
say:  'Charge!'  and  she  wouldn't  hunt;  even  if 
you   were   to   pass   hy  with  a  dozen   dogs, — you 
would  waste  your  time,  nothing  would  you  find! 
hut  when  she  thd  begin, — you  'd  simply  be  glad  to 
(he  on  the  spot!  ....  And  she  Avas  so  polite  in 
the  house,     (rive  her  bread  with  your  left  hand 
and   say: — 'A  Jew  bit  it,' — and   she   wouldn't 
take  it.  lint  give  it  to  her  with  your  right  hand, 
and  say:  "  A  young  lady  tasted  it,' — and  instantly 
siie  (1  take  it  and  eat  it.     I  had  a  pup  of  hers,  a 
eapital  pu]),  and  I  wanted  to  take  it  to  ^Moscow, 
but  a  friend  begged  it  of  me,  along  with  my  gun; 
says  he:  '  In  Moscow,  brother,  you  will  have  no 
use  f'oi-  tlieni:  everything  will  be  quite  different 
there,  brother.'     So  1  gave  him  the  pup,  and  the 
gun  too;  everything  remained  there — behind,  you 
know." 

"  Hut    you    might    have    bunted    in    Moscow 
so. 

"  No;  what  's  the  use?  I  have  n't  known  how  to 
Ik 'id  my  ground,  so  now  let  me  endure  with  pa- 
tience. IJut  iiere  now,  permit  me  rather  to  in- 
(|uire,  how  is  living  in  ^Moscow— dear?  " 

"  Xo,  not  very." 

"Not  very?  ....  Hut  tell  me,  please,  the 
gipsies  live  in  Moscow,  don't  they?  " 

"  ^Vhat  gij)sies?  " 

108 


PIOTR   PKTHOVTTC  IT    KARATAEFF 

"  Why,  the  ones  wlio  travel  round  to  tlie 
fairs?  " 

"  Yesr,  they  live  in  INIoscow.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  that 's  good.  I  'ni  fond  of  gipsies, — 
damn  it,  1  love  them " 

And  Piotr  Petrovitch's  eyes  s})arkled  with  au- 
dacious jollity.  But,  all  at  once,  he  began  to 
wriggle  about  on  the  bench,  then  grew  thought- 
ful, drooped  his  head,  and  stretched  out  his 
empty  glass  to  me. 

"  Give  me  some  of  your  rum,  pray," — said  he. 

"  But  the  tea  is  all  gone." 

"  Never  mind,  I  '11  take  it  so,  without  tea. 
.  .  .  .  Ekh!" 

KarataefF  laid  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
propped  his  arms  on  the  table.  I  gazed  at  him  in 
silence,  and  waited  for  those  emotional  exclama- 
tions,  probably,  even,  those  tears,  of  which  a  man 
in  a  carouse  is  so  lavish;  but  when  he  raised  his 
head,  the  profoundly-melancholy  expression  of 
his  face  amazed  me,  I  must  confess. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir.  ...  I  have  been  recalling  old 
times.  There  's  an  anecdote,  sir.  .  .  .  I  'd  tell  it 
to  you,  only  I  'm  ashamed  to  disturb  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Pray,  do  not  mention  it!  " 

"Yes," — he  went  on,  with  a  sigh: — "things 
happen  .  .  .  however,  i'or  instance,  to  me  also. 
Here  now,  if  you  like,  I  '11  tell  you  the  story. 
However,  I  don't  know.  . 

109 


?5 


^TKMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

*'  'IVll  lUf.  my  dear  I'iotr  Petrovitch."   .   .   . 

"  Vtrv  utll.  altlioii^h  it's  rather  ....  Well, 
you  see."— he  l)egan: — "  l)ut  really,  I  don't 
know 

"  Come.  enoii^Ii  ol'  tliat,  my  dear  Piotr  Petro- 

viteh.  ■ 

"  Well,  as  you  like.  So  then,  this  is  what  hap- 
pened to  me,  so  to  say.  I  was  living  in  the  vil- 
la crt-   sir All  at  once,  I  took  a  fancy  to  a 

y«)uu«i-  i^irl.  Akh,  what  a  girl  she  was!  .  .  .  . 
i)eautif'ul.  clever,  and  so  good-natured!  Her 
name  was  Matryona,  sir.  And  she  was  a  simple 
lass,  that  is  to  say,  you  understand,  a  serf,  sim- 
])1\-  a  slave,  sir.  And  she  was  n't  my  girl,  but  the 
property  of  another, — and  therein  lay  tlie  misfor- 
tune. Well  and  so  I  fell  in  love  with  her, — 
really,  sir,  the  anecdote  is  of  a  sort, —  well,  here 
troes.  So  ]SIatrv6na  began  to  entreat  nie  to  buy 
her  from  her  mistress;  and  I  was  thinking  of  that 
same  thing  myself.  .  .  .  But  her  mistress  was 
wealthy,  a  dreadful  old  woman;  she  lived  about 
fifteen  \ersts  from  me.  Well,  one  fine  day,  as 
the  saying  is,  I  ordered  my  troika  to  be  harnessed, 
— I  had  a  pacer  for  a  shaft-horse,  a  wonderful 
Asiatic  heast,  and  his  name  was  I.ampurdos,  by 
the  way, — dressed  myself  in  mv  best,  and  drove 
oil*  to  Matryona's  mistress.     I  arrived:  'twas  a 

hig  house,  with  wings,  in  a  park jNIatryo- 

iia  was  waiting  for  me  at  the  tm'n  of  the  road, 
and  tried  to  s[)eak  to  me,  but  merely  kissed  my 

110 


piOiu  rKTUovncii  karataeff 

hand  and  stepped  aside.  So  then,  I  entered  the 
anteroom,  and  inquired:  '  Is  the  lady  at  home? ' 
....  And  a  footman  as  tall  as  that,  says :  'What 
name  shall  I  announce? '  Says  I:  '  My  good  fel- 
low, announce  that  S(iuire  Karataeff  has  come  to 
talk  over  a  matter  of  business.'  The  lackey  with- 
drew; I  waited,  and  thought  to  myself:  'How 
will  it  turn  out?  I  suppose  tlie  beast  will  demand 
a  frightfid  price,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  's 
rich.'  Well,  at  last,  the  footman  returned,  and 
said:  '  Please  come  with  me.'  I  followed  him  to 
the  drawing-room.  In  an  arm-chair  sat  a  tiny 
sallow  old  woman,  blinking  her  eyes.  .  .  . 
'  What  do  you  want  ? ' — I  thought  it  necessary 
first,  you  know,  to  declare  that  I  came  to  make 
her  acquaintance. — '  You  are  mistaken,  I  am  not 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  I  am  a  relation  of  hers. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  want  ? ' — Thereupon  I  re- 
marked to  her,  that  1  must  speak  with  the  mis- 
tress herself. — '  JNIarya  Ilinitchna  is  not  receiving 

to-day;   she   is   not    well What    do    you 

want? '....'  There  's  no  help  for  it,'  said  I 
to  myself,  '  I  '11  explain  the  circumstances  to 
her.'  The  old  woman  heard  me  to  the  end. — '  Ma- 
tryona?  what  jNIatryona? — Matryona  Feodoroff, 
the  daughter  of  Kulikoff — Feodor  Kulikoff's 
daughter?  ....  but  how  do  you  know  her? ' 
'  Accidentally.' — '  And  is  she  acquainted  with 
your  intention? ' — '  Slie  is.' — The  old  woman  was 
silent   for   a   while. — '  I  '11   give   it   to   her,    the 

111 


MK.MOIirS  OF  A  sroRTs:\rAN 

wrclc-lil  ...  1  Nvas  aiiia/cd,  1  iiiiist  admit. — 
'  What  lor,  yood  »>raci()iis!  ....  I  am  ready  to 
j)a\-  a  ^(><id  suMi  tor  her,  only  i)lease  to  designate 
it.' — Tlif  old  hag-  fairly  frothed  at  the  mouth. — 
'  \Vell.  a  prettN-  wav  von  've  devised  to  astonish 

I  •  •        « 

IK'oi)lt':  niiK'h  wc  care  for  your  money!  .  .  .  . 
hut  won't  I  Li'iNe  it  to  her,  though!  I  "11  deal  with 
lier.  ...  I  11  thi-ash  the  folly  out  of  her.'— The 
old  woman  fell  into  a  fit  of  eoughing  with  rage. 
Isn't  she  well  off  with  us,  1  \1  like  to  know^? 
ALIi,  she's  a  devil.  Lord  forgive  my  sin!' — I 
tlaied  II]).  I  must  eonfess. — '  Why  do  you  make 
threats  against  the  poor  girl?  In  what  wa}"  is  she 
to  hlame?' — The  old  woman  crossed  herself. — 
'  Akli,  ()  Lord,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  .  .  .' 
— '  ]iut  she  doesn't  helong  to  you,  you  know!' 
— *  ^^'cll.  Miirya  Ilinitchna  knows  all  about  that; 
't  is  no  business  of  yours,  my  good  man;  but  just 
wait,  I  11  show  that  wretched  ]Matry6na  whose 
slave  she  is.' — I  must  confess,  that  I  came  near 
Hinging  myself  on  the  cursed  old  woman,  but  I 
remembered  Matryona,  and  dropped  my  hands. 
It  is  impossible  to  tell  you  hov/  timid  I  became; 
I  began  to  entreat  the  old  woman.  '  Take  what 
\-ou  will,"  1  said. — '  But  what  do  you  Mant  of 
h(rr' — 'I've  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  matushka; 
put  \()iirself  in  my  place.  .  .  .  Permit  me  to  kiss 
\oiii-  lilUc  hand.' — And  I  actually  kissed  the  vil- 
lain's hand!—'  Well! '  mumbled  the  old  witch:— 
'  1   11  tell  .Marya  Ilinitchna;  it  will  be  as  she  com- 

112 


piOtr  petrovitc  it  karataeff 

mands;  and  do  you  drop  in  again  a  couple  of  days 
hence.' — I  drove  home  in  great  perturbation.     1 
had  begun  to  divine  that  1  had  managed  the  busi- 
ness badly,  that  1  had  made  a  mistake  in  allowing 
my  affection  to  be  seen,  but  I  had  thought  of  it 
too  late.    A  couple  of  days  later  I  set  off'  to  call 
on  the  lady.    I  was  shown  into  her  study.     There 
was  a  profusion  of  flowers,  the  decorations  were 
fine ;  the  lady  herself  was  seated  in  such  a  curious 
easy-chair,  with  her  head  reclining  on  cushions; 
and  the  relative  whom  I  had  seen  before  was  sit- 
ting there  also;  and,  besides  these,  some  young 
lady  or  other  with  white  eyebrows  and  lashes,  in  a 
green  gown,  a  wry-mouthed  creature,  a  compan- 
ion,   probably.      The   old   woman    snuffled    out: 
'  Please  sit  down.'     I  sat  down.     She  began  to 
question  me,  as  to  how  old  I  was,  and  where  I  had 
served,  and  what  I  intended  to  do ;  and  all  this  in 
a  patronising,  pompous  way.    I  replied  in  detail. 
The  old  woman  took  a  handkerchief  from  the 
table,  and  fanned  and  fanned  herself  with  it.  .  .  . 
'  Katerina  Karpovna  lias  made  a  report  to  me 
concerning  your  intentions,'  said  she ;  '  she  has  re- 
ported to  me,'  said  she;  '  but  I  have  made  it  a 
rule,'  said  she,  '  not  to  release  my  people  to  go 
out  to  service.     It  is  not  seemly,  and  it  is  not 
proper  in  a  respectable  house :  it  is  n't  good  form. 
I  have  already  taken  the  proper  measures,'  said 
she,  '  and  there  is  no  necessity  for  troubling  you 
further.' — '  It  is  no  trouble,  I  assure  you.  .  .  .  But 

113 


MK^rOTHS  OF  A   SPORTSMA^ 

jKrliajj.s  you  need  Matrvoiia  Feodorovna ? '^ — 
'  Xn,'  said  slie,  '  I  don  t  need  her.' — '  Then  why 
will  not  yon  Kt  me  liave  her? ' — '  Because  1  don't 
ehoose,  hceause  1  don't  clioose  to  do  it,  and  that  's 
n\\  there  is  to  he  said.  I  have  ah'eady  made  ar- 
rangements,' said  she:  '  she  is  to  he  sent  to  a  vil- 
hige  on  the  steppes.' — This  was  hke  a  clap  of 
thunder  to  me.  Tiie  old  woman  said  a  couple  of 
words  in  French  to  the  green  young  lady:  the  lat- 
ter lel't  the  room. — '  I  'm  a  woman  of  strict  prin- 
ciples,' said  she,  '  and  my  health  is  not  strong.  I 
cannot  endure  heing  worried.  You  are  still  a 
young  man,  and  I  am  already  an  old  woman,  and 
entitled  to  give  you  advice.  Would  not  it  be 
l)etter  for  you  to  settle  down,  to  marry,  to  hunt 
up  a  good  match  ^  AVealtliy  brides  are  rare,  but  a 
l)(X)i-  gill,  and  one  of  good  moral  character,  can  be 
I'ound.' — Do  you  know,  I  stared  at  the  old  wo- 
man, and  did  n't  understand  a  word  of  what  she 
was  jabbering;  I  heard  her  saying  something 
about  marriage,  })ut  the  village  on  the  steppes 
kept  ringing  in  my  ears.  '  Marry!  ISIarry!  '  .  .  .  . 
what  the  devil!  .   .   .   ." 

At  this  point  the  narrator  suddenly  halted,  and 
cast  a  glance  at  me. 

"  You  're  not  married,  are  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  AVell,  certainly  not,  as  a  matter  of  course.  I 
couldn't  hear  it:— '  Why,  good  gracious,  ma- 
tushka,  uliat  nonsense  are  you  babbling?    What 

114 


PIOTR   PETROVITCII    KARATAEIF 

has  marriage  to  do  with  it?  I  simply  want  to 
know,  whether  you  will  sell  your  maid  Matryoua 
or  not? ' — The  old  woman  began  to  groan. — 
'  Akh,  he  has  worried  me !  Akh,  order  him  to  go 
away!  akh!  .  .  .  .'  The  relative  sprang  to  her 
assistance,  and  began  to  scream  at  me.  And  the 
old  woman  kept  on  moaning : — '  How  have  I  de- 
served this?  .  .  .  Am  I  no  longer  mistress  in 
my  own  house?  Akh,  akh! '  I  seized  my  hat,  and 
rushed  out  of  the  house  like  a  madman. 

"  Perhaps,"  pursued  the  narrator,  "  you  will 
condemn  me  for  having  become  so  attached  to  a 
mr\  of  the  lower  classes:  and  I  have  no  intention 
of  defending  myself.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine! 
If  you  will  believe  it,  I  had  no  peace  day  or  night. 
...  I  tortured  myself!  '  Why  have  I  ruined  the 
unhappy  girl?'  I  thought.  As  soon  as  I  called 
to  mind  that  she  was  herding  the  geese  in  a  coarse, 
collarless  smock,  and  ill-treated  by  her  mistress's 
command,  and  the  overseer,  a  peasant  in  tarred 
boots,  was  swearing  at  her  and  calling  her  names, 
the  cold  sweat  would  begin  fairly  to  drip  off  me. 
Well,  I  could  n't  endure  it :  I  found  out  to  what 
village  she  had  been  sent,  mounted  m}^  horse,  and 
rode  thither.  I  did  not  arrive  until  toward  even- 
ing of  the  second  day.  Evidently,  they  had  not 
expected  such  a  caper  on  my  part,  and  no  orders 
had  been  given  concerning  me.  I  went  straight  to 
the  overseer,  like  a  neighbour;  I  entered  the  farm- 
yard, and  behold,  there  sat  Matryona  on  the  steps, 

115 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

with  her  liead  propped  on  her  hand.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  crying  out,  hut  I  shook  my  finger  at 
her,  and  pointed  to  the  hack-yard,  to  the  fields.  I 
entered  the  cottage,  chatted  with  the  overseer, 
told  him  a  devilisli  lot  of  hes,  took  advantage 
of  a  good  opportunity,  and  went  out  to  meet  INIa- 
tryona.  She,  poor  girl,  fairly  hung  upon  my 
neck.  She  liad  grown  pale,  and  thin,  my  dear 
little  dove.  And,  do  you  know,  I  said  to  her: 
'  Xever  mind,  ^latryona,  never  mind,  don't  cry; ' 
— but  my  own  tears  were  flowing  all  the  while. 
.  .  .  Well,  anvwav,  at  last  I  felt  ashamed ;  I  said 
to  her: — '  ^Nlatryona,  tears  will  not  help:  we  must 
act  with  decision,  as  the  saying  is;  thou  must  flee 
with  me ;  that 's  tlie  way  we  must  act.' — jNIatryona 
almost  swooned.  .  .  .  '  How  can  I  do  that  ?  why, 
I  shall  be  ruined,  and  they  will  persecute  me 
worse  than  ever ! ' — '  Thou  silly,  who  will  find 
thee?' — 'They  will  find  me,  they  will  find  me 
without  fail.  I  thank  you,  Piotr  Petrovitch, — 
so  long  as  1  live  I  shall  never  forget  thy  kindness, 
but  do  tliou  leave  me  now;  evidently,  such  is  my 
fate.' — '  Ekh,  ^latryona,  ^latryona,  I  had 
thought  that  thou  wert  a  girl  of  firm  character.' 
— And,  in  fact,  she  had  a  lot  of  firmness  .... 
she  had  a  soid,  a  soul  of  gold ! — '  Why  shouldst 
thou  stay  here?  it  will  make  no  difference;  thou 
wilt  be  none  the  worse  off.  Come  now,  tell  me: 
hast  thou  tasted  the  overseer's  fists,  hey? ' — Ma- 
tryona  fairly  boiled  with  wrath,  and  her  lips  be- 

11(3 


PIOTR    I'KTROVTTCTT    KARA TAEFF 

gun  to  quiver. — '  Rut  my  family  \\  ill  be  perse- 
cuted on  mv  account.'-  '  Damn  thy  family.  .  . 
AVill  they  exile  it,  ])ray?' — 'Yes,  they  will  cer- 
tainly send  my  brother  into  exile.' — '  And  thy 
lather?' — 'Well,  they  will  not  exile  my  father; 
he  is  a  vei\y  good  tailor.' — '  There  now,  seest 
thou;  and  thy  brother  will  not  be  ruined  by  that.' 
— If  you  will  believe  me,  I  prevailed  upon  her 
by  force;  she  tried  to  argue  a  while  longer,  say- 
ing: '  They  will  hold  thee  to  account  for  it.  .  .  .' 
'  Rut  that 's  no  business  of  thine,'  said  I.  ...  So 
I  just  carried  her  off  ....  not  on  that  occasion, 
but  on  anotlier:  I  came  by  night,  in  a  cart^and 
carried  her  off." 

"  You  carried  her  off?  " 

"  I  did.  .  .  .  Well,  and  so  she  settled  down 
with  me.  JVIy  house  was  not  large,  my  servants 
were  few.  ]\Iy  people,  I  will  say  it  without  cir- 
cumlocution, respected  me ;  they  would  n't  have 
betrayed  me  for  any  sort  of  good  fortune.  I  be- 
gan to  live  like  a  fighting-cock.  My  dear  little 
Matryona  got  rested,  and  recovered  her  health; 
and  I  got  so  attached  to  her.  .  .  And  what  a  girl 
she  was!  she  could  sing,  and  dance,  and  play  the 
guitar.  .  .  .  I  did  n't  show  her  to  the  neighbours: 
they  'd  have  proclaimed  the  affair  abroad  the  very 
first  thing!  Rut  I  had  a  friend,  a  bosom-friend, 
Pantelei  GornostaefF  —  perhaps  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  him?  He  simply  adored  her:  he 
used  to  kiss  her  hand  as  though  she  had  been  a 

117 


Mi:\K)lKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

well-lH)ni  lady,  lie  really  did.  And  I  must  tell 
vou,  that  (ioniostaeir  was  no  mate  I'or  me:  he 
was  an  edneated  man.  he  had  read  Pnshkin  all 
through:  whtii  \\v  henan  to  talk  to  ^latryona 
and  me.  u f  would  i'airlv  x)rick  up  our  ears. 
\U  tanuht  her  tn  write,  such  an  eccentric  fellow 
1r-  was!  And  how  I  used  to  dress  her, — better 
than  the  (governors  wil'e,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it;  1  had  a  fur-lined  cloak  of  crimson  velvet, 

with  a   fur  horder,  made  for  her And 

how  hfeoiiiin^u'  that  cloak  was  to  her!  A  ^loscow 
mantna-maker  madame  made  that  fur  cloak  after 
a  new  pattern,  fitted  in  at  the  waist.'  And  how 
wondronslv  beautiful  ^latrvona  w^as!  She  used 
to  sit  foi-  hours  at  a  time,  staring  at  the  floor,  and 
never  iiio\  in^-  an  eyelash:  and  I  would  sit  there 
also,  and  ,i»aze  at  her,  and  never  could  gaze  my  fill, 
just  as  though  I  had  never  beheld  her  before. 
.  .  .  .  She  woukl  smile,  and  my  lieart  would 
fairly  (|uiver,  as  though  some  one  had  tickled  it. 
.And  then  all  of  a  sudden,  she  would  set  to  laugh- 
ing, and  jesting,  and  dancing;  she  would  embrace 
me  so  warmly,  so  strongly,  that  my  head  would 
gro\\  (li/,/y.  From  morning  till  night,  the  only 
thing  1  used  to  think  about,  was:  '  How  can  I 
give  her  |)leasure?  '  And  if  you  will  believe  me,  I 
used  to  give  hei'  presents  sim])ly  for  the  sake  of 

'The  ordinary  Russian  "slu'iha"  is  of  [\\c  old-fashioned  "  cirou- 
hii  "  shape,  reacliinfr  from  tlte  neck  to  tiie  jrround,  fur-lined,  and 
wiUi  a  ion;;  "  sliawi  "-siiapcd  fni'  collar,  wliicli  c-an  l)c  tlrawn  up 
arouml   the  ears.— 'ruA.ssi.ATou. 

118 


PIOTH    PKTROVnClI    KARATAEFF 

seeing  lunv  slie,  my  dailiiig,  would  rejoice,  and 
blush  all  over  with  joy,  and  begin  to  try  on  my 
gift,  and  come  to  display  herself  to  me  in  her  new 
things,  and  kiss  me.  I  don't  know  how  her  fa- 
ther, Kulik,  ferreted  out  the  business ;  the  old  man 
came  to  take  a  look  at  us,  and  began  to  cry.  .  .  . 
Thus  we  lived  for  five  months,  and  I  had  no  ob- 
jections to  spending  my  whole  life  with  her,  but 
my  fate  is  such  an  accin*sed  one!  " 

Piotr  Petrovitch  paused. 

"What  happened?" — I  asked  him  with  in- 
terest. 

He  waved  his  hand. 

"  Everything  went  to  the  devil.  And  it  was  I 
that  ruined  her.  INIatryona  was  excessively  fond 
of  sleigh-riding,  and  used  to  drive  herself;  she 
woidd  don  her  fur  cloak,  and  embroidered  Tor- 
zhok  ^  mittens,  and  do  nothing  but  shout.  We 
always  drove  in  the  evening,  so  that  w^e  might 
not  meet  any  one,  you  know.  So,  once  we 
picked  out  a  magnificent  day;  very  cold  and 
clear,  with  no  wind  .  .  .  and  set  off.  JMatryona 
took  the  reins.  So  I  looked  to  see  where  she 
was  going.  Could  it  be  to  Kukuevko,  the  vil- 
lage of  her  mistress?  Exactly  so,  it  was  to  Ku- 
kuevko. I  said  to  her:  'Thou  crazy  girl,  whither 
art  thou  going? '    She  glanced  over  her  shoulder 

^  The  leather  wares  made  in  Torzhok,  not  far  from  Moscow, 
are  an  imitation  of  the  l)caiitifnl.  many-hued  and  eml^roidercd 
goods  made  at  Kazan  by  the  Tatilrs.  In  comparison  with  the 
latter,  they  are  coarse,  and  the  embroidery  in  silks,  gold,  and  silver 
is   very   perishable. — Translator. 

119 


MIMOlirs  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 


at  inc.  ami  laii^licil.  As  iiiucli  as  to  say:  '  Let  me 
sliou  luy  daring! '  '  All!  "  I  thouoht:  '  well,  here 
jr(H»s! '  .  .  .  .  'T  \\as  a  nice  thing  to  drive  past  the 
nianoi-hoiisf,  \\as  n't  it?  tell  me  yourself — was  n't 
it  nicrf  W'tll,  wc  drove  on.  My  pacer  fairly 
floatfd  along,  and  the  trace-liorses  went  like  the 
wind.  1  can  tell  yon, — and  soon  the  church  at 
Knkncvko  cinie  in  sight;  and  behold  an  old  green 
coach  on  iiinncrs  is  crawling  along  the  road,  and 
a  footman  is  towering  up  on  the  footboard  be- 
hind. .  .  .  'T  was  tlie  lady,  the  lady  driving!  1 
was  I'rightcncd,  but  how  ^latryona  slapjjed  the 
reins  on  thr  horses'  backs,  and  how  we  did  dash 
straight  at  the  coadi!  Tlic  coachman!  He,  you 
understand,  saw  tliat  some  wild  phantom  or  other 
was  Hying  to  meet  him, — and  tried  to  turn  out, 
you  know,  but  turned  too  short,  and  overturned 
the  coach  into  a  snow-drift.  The  window  was 
smashed,  the  lady  shrieked:  '  Ai,  ai,  ai!  ai,  a'l,  ai! ' 
the  companion  squealed:  'Stop,  stop!'  but  we 
drove  })ast  as  fast  as  we  could  go.  As  I  galloped 
on  I  thought:  '  Harm  will  come  of  this;  I 
ought  n"t  to  have  allowed  her  to  drive  to  Ku- 
kucvko.'  And  what  do  you  think?  the  lady  had 
recognised  Matryona,  and  had  recognised  me,  the 
old  thing,  and  she  made  a  complaint  against  me: 
'  My  fugitive  serf -girl  is  living  with  nobleman 
Karatjiefi';  '  and  thereupon  she  showed  the 
]>roper  gratitude.^    And  behold,  the  rural  chief  of 

'  Tlial   is,  liiilicd  in  the  proper  quarter. — Tkanslator, 

120 


PIOTR   PETROVITCII    KARAT AEFF 

police  conies  to  inc;  and  this  chief  of  police  was  a 
man  I  knew,  Stepan  Sergyeitch  Kuzovkin,  a  nice 
man ;  that  is  to  say,  in  reality  not  a  nice  man.  So 
he  comes  and  says:  thus  and  so,  Piotr  Petro- 
vitch, — how  came  you  to  do  this?  ....  'T  is  a 
heavy  responsibility,  and  the  laws  are  clear  on 
this  point. — I  said  to  him :  '  Well,  of  course,  you 
and  I  will  talk  this  over,  but  won't  you  have  a 
bite  after  your  journey? '  He  consented  to  have 
a  bite,  but  said :  '  Justice  demands,  Piotr  Petro- 
vitch,  judge  for  yourself.' — '  It 's  all  right  about 
justice,  of  course,' — said  I:  'that's  understood 
.  .  .  but  see  here,  I  have  heard,  that  you  have  a 
black  horse,  so  would  n't  you  like  to  swap  it  for 
my  Lampurdos  ?  .  .  .  .  And  I  have  n't  got  the 
girl  Matryona  Feodorova  in  my  house.' — '  Well, 
Piotr  Petrovitch,'  says  he ;  '  the  girl  is  in  your 
house,  we  are  n't  living  in  Switzerland,  you  know 
....  but  I  might  swap  my  horse  for  your  Lam- 
purdos; I  might  take  him  now,  if  you  like.'  So 
I  managed  to  get  rid  of  him  that  time,  somehow. 
But  the  old  lady  made  a  bigger  fuss  than  before ; 
'  I  won't  hesitate  to  spend  ten  thousand  rubles,' 
said  she.  You  see,  as  she  looked  at  me,  she  Jiad 
suddenly  taken  it  into  her  head,  to  marry  me  to 
her  green  companion, — I  found  that  out  after- 
ward; and  that  is  why  she  made  such  a  row. 
What  whims  those  well-born  ladies  do  take  into 
their  heads!  .  .  .  Out  of  boredom,  I  suppose. 
I    was    in    a    bad    fix:    I    did    not    spare    my 

121 


MKMOIKS   OF  A   S1M)HTSMAN 

money,  and  I  concealed  Matryona, — in  vain! 
They  harassed  me  to  deatli.  tliey  got  me  com- 
pletely tied  II J)  in  a  snarl.  I  got  into  debt,  I 
lost  my  health.  .  .  .  So,  one  night  1  lay  in 
my  hed  and  thought:  '  ()  Lord  my  God,  why 
do  I  endure  itf  What  am  I  to  do,  if  I  can't 
renounce  my  love  for  her?  .  .  .  Well,  I  can't, 
and  that  's  all  there  is  about  it! ' — and  INIatryona 
walks  into  my  room.  All  this  time  I  had  been 
hiding  iier  at  my  farm,  a  couple  of  versts  from 
my  house.  1  was  frightened. — '  What  's  the 
matter'  have  they  discovered  thee  there?  ' — '  No, 
ri(')tr  Petn'nitch,'^ — says  she:  '  no  one  is  troubling 
me  at  Bubnova:  but  can  this  continue  long?  jNIy 
heart/  says  she.  '  is  breaking,  Piotr  Petrovitch; 
1  'm  so  sorry  l'(n-  you,  my  darling:  as  long  as  I 
live  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness,  Piotr  Pe- 
trovitch, but  I  have  come  now  to  bid  you  fare- 
well.'— '  A\'hat  art  thou  saying,  what  art  thou 
.saying,  thou  madwoman^  .  .  .  What  dost  thou 
mean,  what  dost  thou  mean,  by  bidding  me  fare- 
wells ' — '  Whv,  so  .  .  I  '11  go  and  surrender  mv- 
self.' — '  But  1  '11  lock  thee  up  in  the  garret,  thou 
mad  creature.  .  .  .  Ilast  thou  taken  it  into  thy 
head  to  ruin  me?  dost  thou  wish  to  kill  me,  pray? ' 
— The  girl  said  nothing,  but  stared  at  the  floor. — 
'Come,  speak,  s])eak!' — 'I  don't  want  to  cause 
you  any  more  trouble,  Piotr  Petrovitch.' — Well, 
it  was  no  use  talking  to  her.  .  .  '  But  knowest 
thou,  Tool,  knowest  thou,  thou  era  ....  crazy 
woman '  " 

122 


riOTR   PF/IHOVITCII    KARxVl  AEIF 

And  Piotr  Petrovitcli  burst  out  sobbing  bit- 
terly. 

"And,  wbut  do  you  think?" — he  went  on, 
smiting  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  trying  to 
frown,  while  the  tears  continued  to  stream  down 
his  flushed  cheeks: — "  the  girl  actually  gave  her- 
self up, — she  went  and  gave  herself  up.  .  .  ." 

"  The  horses  are  ready,  sir!  " — cried  the  super- 
intendent solemnly,  entering  the  room. 

We  both  rose. 

"  And  what  did  they  do  with  JNIatryona?  " — I 
asked. 

KarataefF  waved  his  hand. 

A  year  after  my  meeting  with  KarataefF,  I  hap- 
pened to  go  to  Moscow.  One  day,  before  dinner, 
I  entered  a  cafe  whicli  is  situated  behind  the 
Okhotny  Ryady,' — an  original,  Moscow  cafe. 
In  the  billiard-room  athwart  the  billows  of  smoke, 
one  caught  fleeting  glances  of  reddened  faces, 
moustaches,  crest-curls,  old-fashioned  hussar- 
jackets,  and  the  newest-patterned  coats.  Gaunt 
old  men  in  plain  coats  were  reading  the  Rus- 
sian newspapers.  Waiters  were  flitting  briskly 
about  with  trays,  treading  softly  on  the  green 
carpets.  JMerchants  were  drinking  tea  with 
painful  assiduity.  All  at  once  there  emerged 
from  the  billiard-room  a  man  who  was  some- 
what dishevelled,  and  not  quite  steady  on  his 
legs.      He    thrust    his    hands    into    his    pockets, 

^  Or,   "  gainc-iii.irket." — Translatob. 

123 


MIMOIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

luiiiLi     Ills    IkmiI.    and     stared    stupidly     around 

liiin. 

•Ha.   l.a,   l.a!     Tiotr   IVtrovitcli  I  ....   How 

are  you '. 

Piotr  IVtrovitcli  I'aiily  hurled  himself  on  my 
neck,  ;.iid  drew  me  aside  with  somewhat  stag- 
^eriu«»-  steps,  into  a  pi'ivate  room. 

••  litre  now,"-  -lie  said,  solicitously  seating 
mc  in  an  casy-ehair: — ''  Here  you  will  be  com-  ' 
tnrtahle.  Waiter,  beer!  No,  I  mean  cham- 
pagne! Well,  I  admit,  that  I  wasn't  expecting, 
I  was  n't  expecting.  .  .  .  Have  j^ou  been 
in  town  longf  are  you  here  for  long?  Here, 
(hxI     has     hiought,     as     the     saying     is,     the 


nuui  .  .  ." 


"  Hut,  do  you  remember  .  .  .  .  " 

■'  How  could  I  fail  to  remember?  how  could  I 
fail  to  lemember?  "— he  hastily  interrupted  me: 
— "  "t  is  an  affair  of  the  past  ....  an  affair  of 
the  past.   ..." 

Well,    what   are   you   doing   here,   my   dear 
l»iotr  retnnitchr' 

■  I  ani  living,  as  you  are  pleased  to  observe. 
Life  is  good  here,  the  people  are  cordial.  I  have 
recovered  my  composure  here." 

And  he  sighed,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

"  Aw  yon  in  the  service?  " 

"  Xo  sii\  I  111  not  serving  yet,  but  1  'm  think- 
ing of  finding  a  position  soon.  And  what  's  the 
Jici'vice? People — that  's    tjie    principal 

124. 


riOTR    PKl  HOVITCH    KARATAEFF 

thing.     What  tine  people  i  ha\e  made  acquain- 
tance with  here !  "  .... 

A  boy  entered  with  a  bottle  of  champagne  on 
a  black  tray. 

"  Here,  he  's  a  fine  man  too  .  .  .  thou  art  a 
fine  man,  art  thou  not,  Vasya?  To  thy  health!  " 

The  lad  stood  still  for  a  moment,  shaking  his 
little  head  decorously,  then  smiled,  and  left  the 
room. 

"  Yes,  the  people  here  are  nice," — went  on 
Piotr  Petrovitch: — "they  have  sentiment,  they 
have  soul.  ...  I  '11  introduce  you,  shall  I?  Such 
splendid  fellows.  .  .  .  They  will  all  be  delighted 
to  know  you.  I  must  tell  you.  .  .  .  BobrofF  is 
dead,  and  that 's  a  pity." 

"What  BobrofF?" 

"  Sergyei  Bobroff.  He  was  a  splendid  man; 
he  took  care  of  me,  an  ignoramus,  a  steppe- 
dweller.  And  Pantelei  GornostaefF  is  dead  too. 
All  are  dead,  all !  " 

"  Have  you  been  living  all  the  time  in  JNIoscow? 
Have  you  not  made  a  trip  to  your  village?  " 

"  To  the  village  ....  they  have  sold  my 
village." 

"Sold  it?" 

"  At  suction^  It 's  a  pity  that  you  did  not 
buy  it!  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  live  on,  Piotr  Petro- 
vitch? " 

^  Auction. — Translator. 

125 


.MKMOIIJS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

"  W'liN .  I  shall  not  (lie  of  hunger.  God  will 
piovidcl  \\  1  have  no  money,  1  shall  have 
friends.  And  \shat  is  money? — -dust!  Gold 
dust!" 

He  sercweii  up  his  eyes,  fumbled  in  his  pocket 
with  his  hand,  and  held  out  to  me  on  his  palm  two 
Hfteen-kopek  pieces,  and  a  ten-kopek  piece. 

*' What's  that?    Dust,  isn't  it?"     (And  the 
money  t^e^\•  to  the  floor.)     "  But  do  you  tell  me, 
rather,  ha\e  yon  I'ead  Polezhaeff  ?  " 
1  es. 

"  Have  you  seen  JNIotchalofF  in  Hamlet?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"  You  haven't  seen  him,  you  have  n't  seen 
iiim.  .  .''  (And  Karataeff's  face  turned  pale, 
liis  eyes  roved  uneasily;  faint  convulsive  twitches 
flitted  across  his  lips.) 

"Akh,  ISlotchalofl-,  Motchaloif!  'To  die,  to 
sleep  '  " — he  quoted,  in  a  dull  voice: 

'*  No  iiioi'L-;  aiul  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

'I'liat  flesh  is  heir  to 'T  is  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  he  wished!    To  die, — to  sleep.   ... 

"  '  'J\)  sleep,  to  sleep!  '  " — he  muttered,  several 
times  in  succession. 

"  Tell  me,  please," — I  began;  but  he  went  on 
fervidly: 

"  I-'or  wlio  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
'i'he  ()])j)ressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

126 


PIOTR  PETROX  riCII    KARAT AEFF 

The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?   ....   Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remembered !  " 

And  lie  dropped  his  head  on  the  table.  He  was 
beginning  to  hiccough  and  to  talk  at  random. 

"  '  And  in  one  month,'  "  he  enunciated,  with 
fresh  force : 

"  A  little  month,  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old 
With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears, — why,  she,  even  she, — 
O  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourned  longer.   .   .   ." 

He  raised  his  glass  of  champagne  to  his  lips, 
but  did  not  drink  the  wine,  and  continued : 

"  For  Hecuba ! 
What 's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her.''   .... 
Yet  I   ....  a  dull  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak, 
Like  John-a-dreams !    Who  calls  mc  villain  ? 
Gives  me  the  lie  i'  the  throat.'* 
'Swounds,  I  should  take  it ;  for  it  cannot  be 
But  I  am  pigeon-livered,  and  lack  gall 
To  make  oppression  bitter.   .   .   ." 

KarataefF  dropped  his  glass  and  clutched  his 
head.    It  seemed  to  me  that  I  understood  him. 
"  Well,  never  mind," — he  said  at  last: — "  when 

127 


ME^rOTKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

M)rnj\\  is  asleep,  wake  it  not.  ...  Is  n't  that 
tnief"  (And  he  l)eoan  to  huigli.) — "To  your 
heahhl" 

"  Shall    you    iciiiain    in    .Moscow?" — I    asked 

hint. 

"  1  sliall  die  in  Moseow!  '" 

'*  Karatiieft'," — shouted  some  one  in  tlie  ad- 
ioiniuir  room — "  KarataefF,  where  art  thou? 
come  liither,  my  dear  fe-ow!  "  ^ 

"  They  are  calling  me," — he  said,  rising  heav- 
ily from  liis  seat. — "  Ciood-bye;  drop  in  to  see  me 
if  you  can,  I  live  in  *  *  *." 

Hut  on  the  i'ollowing  day,  owing  to  unforeseen 
circumstances,  I  was  obliged  to  leave  JNIoscow, 
and  never  saw  Piotr  Petrovitch  Karataeff  again. 

'  It  is  rather  fasliional)le  to  ])ronounce  tchelovyek  tche-a-ek. 
'I'luTchy,  .'ilso,  the  "  liard  /"  is  avoided,  which  is  as  difficult  to  pro- 
iioimce,  for  some  Russians  (not  to  mention  foreigners),  as  the  r  is 
for  many  Knplishnicn  and  Americans.- — Translator. 


128 


VI 

THi:  TRYST 

I  WAS  sitting  ill  ji  bircli  grove  in  autumn,  about 
the  middle  of  September.  A  fine  dri/zling  rain 
had  been  descending  ever  since  dawn,  inter- 
spersed at  times  wixli  >\'arm  sunshine;  the  weather 
was  inconstant.  Now  the  sky  would  be  com- 
pletely veiled  in  porous  white  clouds;  again,  all  of 
a  sudden,  it  would  clear  up  in  spots  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  from  behind  the  parted  thunderclouds, 
the  clear  and  friendly  azure  would  show  itself, 
like  a  beautiful  eye.  I  sat,  and  gazed  about  me, 
and  listened.  The  leaves  were  rustling  in  a  barely 
audible  manner  overhead ;  from  their  sound  alone 
one  could  tell  what  season  of  the  year  it  was.  It 
was  not  the  cheerful,  laughing  rustle  of  spring- 
time, not  the  soft  whispering,  not  the  long  conver- 
sation of  summer,  not  the  cold  and  timid  stam- 
mering of  late  autumn,  but  a  barely  audible, 
dreamy  chatter.  A  faint  breeze  swept  feebly 
across  the  tree-tops.  The  interior  of  the  grove, 
moist  with  the  rain,  kept  changing  incessantly,  ac- 
cording to  whether  the  sun  shone  forth,  or  was 
covered  with  a  cloud;  now  it  was  all  illuminated, 

• 

as  though  everything  in  it  were  suddenly  smiling: 

129 


MKMOIKS  OF  A   STOKTSMAN 

tlic  slfiuli  r  l»<>k's  (if  tlie  Jiot  too  thickly  set  birches 
MuKkiiiy  assimicd  the  tender  gleam  of  white  silk, 
thf  small  leaves  w  hieh  hiy  on  the  ground  smldenly 
grew  varitgatt'd  and  Hgiited  up  with  the  golden 
hue  of  dueats,  and  the  handsome  stalks  of  the  tall, 
eurlv  feiiis,  already  stained  with  their  autum- 
nal  hue.  hke  the  colour  of  over-ripe  grapes, 
seemed  fairly  transparent,  as  they  intertwined 
interminal)l\-  and  crossed  one  another  before 
one's  eves;  now,  ol"  a  sudden,  everything  round 
about  wouhl  turn  slightly  blue:  the  brilliant  hues 
were  extinguished  i'or  a  moment,  the  birches 
stood  there  all  white,  devoid  of  reflections,  white 
as  newly  fallen  snow,  which  has  not  yet  been 
tt)uche(l  i)y  the  spai'kling  rays  of  the  winter  sun; 
and  tlie  fine  rain  began  stealthily,  craftily,  to 
sprinkle  and  whisiier  through  the  forest.  The 
I'oliage  on  the  trees  was  still  almost  entirely 
green,  although  it  had  faded  perceptibly;  only 
here  and  there  stood  one,  some  young  tree,  all 
.scarlet,  or  all  gold,  and  you  should  have  seen 
how  brilliantly  it  flamed  up  in  the  sun,  when  the 
rays  gliding  and  changing,  suddenly  pierced 
through  the  thick  network  of  the  slender  branches, 
oidy  just  washed  clean  by  the  glittering  rain. 
Xol  a  single  bird  was  to  be  heard;  they  had 
all  taken  refuge,  and  fallen  silent;  only  now  and 
then  did  the  jeering  little  voice  of  the  tom-tit  ring 
our  like  a  tiny  steel  belh  Before  I  had  come  to  a 
halt  iti  this  hiirh-forest  i  and  my  dog  had  trav- 

I'M) 


THE  TRYST 

ersed  a  grove  of  lofty  aspens.  I  must  confess  that 
I  am  not  particularly  fond  of  that  tree,  the  aspen, 
with  its  pale-lilac  trunk,  and  greyish-green,  me- 
tallic foliage,  which  it  elevates  as  high  aloft  as 
possible,  and  spreads  forth  to  the  air  in  a  trem- 
bling fan ;  I  do  not  like  the  eternal  rocking  of  its 
round,  dirty  leaves,  awkwardly  fastened  to  their 
long  stems.  It  is  a  fine  tree  only  on  some  summer 
evenings  when,  rising  isolated  amid  a  plot  of  low- 
growing  bushes,  it  stands  directly  in  the  line  of 
the  glowing  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  glistens 
and  quivers  from  its  root  to  its  crest,  all  deluged 
with  a  uniform  reddish-yellow  stain, — or  when, 
on  a  bright,  windy  day,  it  is  all  noisily  rippling 
and  lisping  against  the  blue  sky,  and  its  every 
leaf,  caught  in  the  current,  seems  to  want  to 
wrench  itself  free,  fly  ofl"  and  whirl  away  into  the 
distance.  But,  on  the  whole,  I  do  not  like  that 
tree,  and  therefore,  without  halting  to  rest  in  that 
grove,  I  wended  my  way  to  the  little  birch-cop- 
pice, nestled  down  under  one  small  tree,  whose 
boughs  began  close  to  the  ground,  and,  conse- 
quently, could  protect  me  from  the  rain,  and 
after  having  admired  the  surrounding  view,  I 
sank  into  that  untroubled  and  benignant  slumber 
which  is  known  to  sportsmen  alone. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  slept,  but  when  I 
opened  my  eyes, — the  whole  interior  of  the  forest 
was  filled  with  sunlight,  and  in  all  directions, 
athwart  the  joyously  rustling  foliage,  the  bright- 

131 


M  KM  OIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

l»luf  sky  sttiiR-d  to  l)c  sparklin-^-:  tlie  clouds  had 
vaiiislud.  (lisjKTSfd  l»y  the  sportive  hree/c;  the 
weathtr  had  cleared,  ami  in  the  atmosphere  was 
jHretptil)le  that  i)eeuliar,  dry  chill  which,  tilling 
tlic  hiart  \\ith  a  sort  of  sensation  of  alertness,  al- 
most always  is  the  liarhinger  of  a  clear  evening 
after  a  stormy  (hiy.  I  was  ])reparing  to  rise  to 
my  feet,  and  try  my  luck  again,  when  suddenly 
mv  eyis  lialted  on  a  motionless  human  form.  I 
took  a  more  attentive  look:  it  was  a  young  peas- 
ant maiden.  Slie  was  sitting  twenty  paces  distant 
from  me.  w  ith  hei-  liead  drooping  thoughtfully, 
and  holli  arms  lying  idly  on  lier  knees;  on  one  of 
them,  wiiieh  was  half  hare,  lay  a  thick  hunch  of 
field  How  CIS.  w  hich  went  slipping  softly  down  her 
plaid  |)etticoat  at  each  hreath  she  drew.  Her 
dean  w  Iiite  chemise,  unlnittoned  at  the  throat  and 
wrists,  fell  in  short,  soft  folds  ahout  her  figure: 
two  rows  of  large  yellow  pearl-heads  depended 
from  her  neck  upon  her  hreast.  She  was  very 
comely.  Ilei-  thick,  fair  hair,  of  a  fine  ash-hlond 
hue,  fell  in  two  carefully  hrushed  semi-circles 
from  heneath  a  narrow,  red  hand  which  was 
pulled  down  almost  on  her  very  hrow,  as  white  as 
ivory:  the  rest  of  her  face  was  slightly  sunhurned 
to  that  golden  tint  which  only  a  fine  skin  assumes. 
I  coidd  not  see  her  eyes— she  did  not  raise  them; 
hut  1  did  see  her  high,  slender  eyehrows,  her  long 
eyelashes;  tliey  were  mf)ist.  and  on  one  of  her 
cheeks  there  glittered  in  the  sunlight  the  dried 

132 


THE   TRYST 

trace  of  a  tear,  that  had  stopped  short  close  to  her 
h"ps,  which  had  grown  sh'ghtly  pale.  Her  whole 
little  head  was  extremely  charming;  even  her 
rather  tliick  and  rounded  nose  did  not  spoil  it.  1 
was  particularly  pleased  with  the  expression  of 
her  face:  it  was  so  simple  and  gentle,  so  sad  and 
so  full  of  childish  surpi-ise  at  its  own  sadness. 
She  was  evidently  waiting  for  some  one;  some- 
thing crackled  faintly  in  the  forest.  She  imme- 
diately raised  her  head  and  looked  about  her;  in 
the  transparent  shadow  her  eyes  flashed  swiftly 
before  me, — large,  clear,  timorous  eyes,  like  those 
of  a  doe.  She  listened  for  several  moments,  with- 
out taking  her  widely  opened  eyes  from  the  spot 
where  the  faint  noise  had  resoimded,  sighed, 
gently  turned  away  her  head,  bent  down  still 
lower  than  before,  and  began  slowlj^  to  sort  over 
her  flowers.  Her  eyelids  reddened,  her  lips 
moved  bitterly,  and  a  fresh  tear  rolled  from  be- 
neath her  thick  eyelashes,  halting  and  glittering 
radiantly  on  her  cheek.  Quite  a  long  time  passed 
in  this  manner;  the  poor  girl  did  not  stir, — only 
now  and  then  she  moved  her  hands  about  and  lis- 
tened, listened  still.  .  .  .  Again  something  made 
a  noise  in  the  forest, —  she  gave  a  start.  The  noise 
did  not  cease,  grew  more  distinct,  drew  nearer ;  at 
last  brisk,  decided  footsteps  made  themselves 
audible.  She  drew  herself  up,  and  seemed  to  be 
frightened;  her  attentive  glance  wavered,  with, 
expectation,  apparently.     A  man's  figure  flitted 

133 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

swiftly  tliioiiLili  IIr'  thicket.  She  glanced  at 
it,  suddenly  lluslitd  up,  smiled  joyously  and  hap- 
j)ily,  tried  to  rise  to  her  feet,  and  immediately 
htnt  clear  nwv  once  more,  grew  pale  and  con- 
fused,—and  only  laised  her  palpitating,  almost 
iK-seechiiig  glance  lo  the  approaching  man  when 
the  latter  had  come  to  a  halt  hy  her  side. 

I  gazed  at  him  with  interest  from  my  ambush. 
I  must  confess  that  he  did  not  produce  a  pleasant 
impression  on  me.  From  all  the  signs,  he  was  the 
petted  \;il(t  of  a  young,  wealthy  gentleman.  His 
clothing  hetrayed  pretensions  to  taste  and  fop- 
pish carelessness:  he  wore  a  short  overcoat  of 
hronze  hue,  i)rol)al)ly  the  former  property  of  his 
master,  buttoned  to  the  throat,  a  small  ^Jink  neck- 
erchief with  lilac  ends,  and  a  black  velvet  cap, 
with  gold  galloon,  j)ulle(l  down  to  his  very  eye- 
brows. The  round  collar  of  his  white  shirt 
j)ropj)e(l  up  his  ears,  and  ruthlessly  sawed  his 
cheeks,  and  his  starched  cuffs  covered  the  whole 
of  his  hands  down  to  his  red,  crooked  finders, 
adorned  with  gold  and  silver  rings  with  turquoise 
forget-me-nots.  His  fresh,  rosy,  bold  face  be- 
longed to  the  category  of  visages  which,  so  far  as 
I  ha\e  been  able  to  observe,  almost  always  irritate 
men  and.  unfortunately,  very  often  please  women. 
He  was,  obviously,  trying  to  impart  to  his  some- 
what coarse  features  a  scornful  and  bored  ex- 
pression; he  ke])t  incessantly  screwing  up  bis 
little  milky-grey  eyes,  which  were  small  enough 

VS4> 


n^ 


THE  TRYST 

without  that,  knitting  liis  hrows,  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  his  hps,  constrainedly  yawning, 
and  with  careless,  although  not  quite  skilful  ease 
of  manner  he  now  adjusted  with  his  hand  his 
sandy,  dashingly  upturned  temple-curls,  now 
plucked  at  the  small  yellow  hairs  which  stuck  out 
on  his  thick  upper  lip, — in  a  word,  he  put  on  in- 
tolerable airs.  He  began  to  put  on  airs  as  soon 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  young  peasant  girl  who 
was  waiting  for  him;  slowly,  with  a  swaggering 
stride,  he  approached  her,  stood  for  a  moment, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  thrust  both  hands  into 
the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and,  barely  vouchsafing 
the  poor  girl  a  fugitive  and  indifferent  glance,  he 
dropped  down  on  the  ground. 

"  Well," — he  began,  continuing  to  gaze  off 
somewhere  to  one  side,  dangling  his  foot  and 
yawning: — "  hast  thou  been  here  long?  " 

The  girl  could  not  answer  him  at  once. 

"  A  long  time,  sir,  Viktor  Alexandrovitch," — 
she  said  at  last,  in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

"  All!  "  (He  removed  his  cap,  passed  his  hand 
majestically  over  his  thick,  tightly  curled  hair, 
which  began  almost  at  his  very  eyebrows,  and 
after  glancing  around  him  with  dignity,  he  care- 
fully covered  his  precious  head  again.)  "Why, 
I  came  pretty  near  forgetting  all  about  it.  And 
then,  there  was  the  rain,  you  know!"  (He 
yawned  again.) — "I  have  a  lot  of  things  to 
do:    I  can't  attend  to  them  all,  and  he  scolds 

135 


MKMOTKS   or   A    SPORTSMAN 

into  the-  har^aiii.  To-inorrow  we  are  going 
away.   ... 

•  ro-iiKiriow  :■ '" — ejaculated  the  girl,  and 
ti\t.(i  a  IriLilitciird  glaiRv  on  him. 

"  \\s.  to-iuoiTow.  .  .  .  Come,  come,  come, 
piay."  he  interposed  liastily  and  with  vexation, 
seeing  tliat  .she  was  heginning  to  tremhle,  and  had 
.softly  drooped  her  head: — "Pray,  don't  crjs 
Akulina.  Thou  knowest  that  1  cannot  endure 
that."  (  And  he  wrinkled  up  his  stuhhy  nose.)  — 
*'  11'  thnii  (lost,  T  Ml  go  away  instantly.  .... 
How  stupid  it  is  lo  whimper!  " 

"  AVdI.  I  wont,  1  won't," — hastily  articulated 
^Akulina,  swallowing  her  tears  wuth  an  effort. — 
".So  you  are  going  away  to-morrow?"- — she 
added  after  a  .short  silence: — "  When  will  God 
grant  ine  to  see  you  again,  Viktor  Alexandro- 
vitehr" 

"  We  shall  see  each  other  again,  we  shall  see 
each  other  again.  If  not  next  year,  then  later  on. 
I  think  the  master  intends  to  enter  the  ffov- 
ernment  .service  in  Petershurg," — he  went  on, 
uttering  his  words  carelessly  and  somewhat 
through  his  nose: — "and  perhaps  we  shall  go 
ah  road." 

"  You  will  forget  me,  Viktor  Alexandro- 
vitch," — said  iVkulina  sadly. 

"  Xo,  why  .should  I?  I  will  not  forget  thee: 
only,  thou  must  he  sensihle,  don't  make  a  fool  of 
thyself,  heed  thy  father.  .  .  .  And  I  won't  for- 


THE  TRYST 


get  thee — no-o-o."  (And  he  cahnly  stretched 
himself  and  yawned  again.) 

"  Do  not  forget  me,  Viktor  Alexandrovitcli," 
she  continued,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty.  "  I  think 
that  I  have  loved  you  to  such  a  degree,  it  always 
seems  as  though  for  you,  I  would  ....  you  say, 
I  must  obey  my  father,  Viktor  Alexandrovitcli. 
.  .  .  But  how  am  I  to  obey  my  father " 

"  But  why  not?  "  (He  uttered  these  words  as 
though  from  his  stomach,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
with  his  arms  under  his  head. ) 

"  But  what  do  you  mean,  Viktor  Alexandro- 
vitcli .  .  .  you  know  yourself.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  short,  Viktor  toyed  with  the  steel 
chain  of  his  watch. 

"  Thou  art  not  a  stupid  girl,  Akulina," — he 
began  at  last: — "therefore,  don't  talk  nonsense. 
I  desire  thy  welfare,  dost  understand  me?  Of 
course,  thou  art  not  stupid,  not  a  regular  peasant, 
so  to  speak ;  and  thy  mother  also  was  not  always 
a  peasant.  All  the  same,  thou  hast  no  education 
— so  thou  must  obey  when  people  give  thee 
orders." 

"  But  I  'm  afraid,  Viktor  Alexandrovitcli." 

"  I-i,  what  nonsense,  my  dear  creature!  What 
hast  thou  to  be  afraid  of?  What 's  that  thou  hast 
there," — he  added,  moving  toward  her: — "flow- 
ers? 

"  Yes," — replied  Akidina,  dejectedly.  —  "I 
have  been  plucking  some  wild  tansy," — she  went 

137 


Ml. Mollis   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

on,  after  a  hiicf  pause :^ — " 'T  is  <j;ooc1  for  the 
calves.  AikI  this  lieie  is  a  good  remedy  for 
scrofula.  See,  what  a  wouderfully  heautiful 
flower  I  1  lia\  e  uever  seen  such  a  beautiful  flower 
in  my  life.  Here  are  forget-me-nots,  and  here  is 
a  violet.  .  .  .  ^Vnd  this,  here,  I  got  for  you," — 
she  added,  drawing  from  beneath  the  yellow 
tansy  a  small  bunch  of  blue  corn-flowers,  bound 
together  with  a  slender  blade  of  grass: — "Will 
you  take  them?  " 

\'ikt(»i'  languidly  put  out  his  hand,  took  the 
flowers,  .smelled  of  them  carelessly,  and  began  to 
twist  them  about  in  his  Angers, staring  pompously 
upward.  Akulina  glanced  at  him.  ...  In  her 
sorrowful  gaze  there  was  a  great  deal  of  devotion, 
of  adoring  submission  to  him.  And  she  w-as 
afraid  of  him  also,  and  did  not  dare  to  cry,  and 
was  bidding  him  farewell  and  gloating  upon  him 
for  the  last  time;  but  he  lay  there,  sprawhng  out 
like  a  sultan,  and  tolerated  her  adoration  with 
magnanimous  patience  and  condescension.  I 
must  confess,  that  I  gazed  with  indignation  at  his 
red  face,  whereon,  athwart  the  feignedly-scorn- 
ful  indifference,  there  peered  forth  satisfied, 
satiated  self-conceit.  Akulina  was  so  fine  at  that 
moment:  lier  whole  soul  opened  confidingly,  pas- 
sionately before  him,  reached  out  to  him,  fawned 
ujK)!!  liim,  and  he  ....  he  dropped  the  corn- 
flowers on  the  grass,  ))ulled  a  round  monocle  in  a 
bronze  setting  from  the  side-pocket  of  his  pale- 

138 


THE   TRYST 

tot,  and  ]>e*>an  to  stick  it  into  his  eye;  but  try  as 
he  would  to  hold  it  fast  with  his  frowning-  brows, 
the  monocle  kept  tumbling  out  and  falling  into 
his  hand. 

"  What  is  that?  "^ — inquired  the  amazed  Aku- 
lina  at  last. 

"  A  lorgnette," — he  replied  pompously. 

"  What  is  it  for?  " 

"  To  see  better  with." 

"  Pray  let  me  see  it." 

Viktor  frowned,  but  gave  her  the  monocle. 

"  Look  out,  see  that  thou  dost  not  break  it." 

"Never  fear,  I  won't  break  it."  (She  raised 
it  timidly  to  her  eye.)  "  I  can  see  nothing," — she 
said  innocently. 

"  Why,  pucker  up  thine  eye,"^ — he  retorted  in 
the  tone  of  a  displeased  preceptor.  ( She  screwed 
up  the  eye  in  front  of  which  she  was  holding  the 
glass.) 

"  Not  that  one,  not  that  one,  the  other  one!  " — 
shouted  Viktor,  and  without  giving  her  a  chance 
to  repair  her  mistake,  he  snatched  the  lorgnette 
away  from  her. 

Akulina  blushed  scarlet,  smiled  faintly,  and 
turned  away. 

"  Evidently,  it  is  not  suited  to  the  like  of  me," 
— said  she. 

"  I  should  say  not!  " 

The  poor  girl  made  no  reply,  and  sighed 
deeply. 

139 


MI.MOIHS   OV   A    SPOirrSMAN 

"  Akii.  N'iktor  Alexjiiulrovitch,  what  shall  I  do 
Nsithoiit  you!  "she  siuidtnly  said.  \^ikt6r  wiped 
tile  loryriette  with  the  tail  of  his  coat,  and  put  it 
haek  in  his  ptjcket. 

"Yes,  yes," — lie  said  at  last: — "thou  wilt 
really  lind  it  \ery  hard  at  first."  (He  patted  her 
eondeseendingly  on  the  shoulder;  she  softly  re- 
moved his  liand  from  her  shoulder,  and  kissed  it 
timidlv.) — "Well,  ves,  ves,  thou  really  art  a 
good  girl,"  lie  went  on,  with  a  conceited  smile; 
"  l)iit  wliat  can  one  do?  Judge  for  thyself! 
tile  master  and  I  cannot  remain  here;  winter 
will  soon  l)e  iiere,  and  the  country  in  winter — 
tliou  knowest  it  tliyself — is  simpty  yile.  'T  is 
(juite  anotlier  matter  in  Petersburg!  There  are 
simply  swell  marvels  there  as  thou,  silly,  canst  not 
even  imagine  in  tliy  dreams.  Such  houses,  such 
streets,  and  society,  culture — simply  astound- 
ing! .  .  ."  (xVknlina  listened  to  him  with  de- 
vouring attention,  her  hps  slightly  parted,  like 
those  of  a  ciiild.) — "  Eut  what  am  I  telling  thee 
all  this  for?  " — he  added,  turning  over  on  the 
ground.  "  Of  course,  thou  canst  not  under- 
stand! " 

"  Wliy   not,   A'iktor  Alexandrovitch?    1   have 
understood — I  have  understood  everythinsr." 

"  Did  any  one  ever  see  such  a  girl!  " 

iVkuli'na  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  You  did  not  use  to  talk  to  me  formerly  in  that 

14.0 


THE  TKYST 

way,  Viktor  Alexiindrovitcli," — she  said,  without 
raising  her  eyes. 

"  Foi'inerly?  .  .  .  formerly!  Just  see  there, 
now!  ....  Formerly!" — he  remarked,  as 
though  vexed. 

Both  maintained  silence  for  a  while. 

"  But  I  must  be  off," — said  Viktor,  and  began 
to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow 

"  Wait  a  little  longer," — articulated  Akulina, 
in  a  beseeching  voice. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  waiting?  ...  I  have  al- 
ready bade  thee  farewell,  have  n't  I?  " 

"  Wait," — repeated  Akulina. 

Viktor  stretched  himself  out  again,  and  began 
to  whistle.  Still  Akulina  never  took  her  eyes 
from  him.  I  could  perceive  that  she  had  grown 
somewhat  agitated:  her  lips  were  twitching,  her 
pale  cheeks  had  taken  on  a  faint  flush.  .  .  . 

"  Viktor  Alexandrovitch," — she  said  at  last,  in 
a  broken  voice: — "  'tis  sinful  of  you  .  .  .  sinful 
of  you,  Viktor  Alexandrovitch:  by  heaven,  it  is!  " 

"What's  sinful?" — he  asked,  knitting  his 
brows,  and  he  half  rose  and  turned  toward  her. 

"  'T  is  sinful,  Viktor  Alexandrovitch.  You 
might  at  least  speak  a  kind  word  to  me  at  ])art- 
ing;  you  might  at  least  say  one  little  word  to  me, 
an  unhappy  orphan.  ..." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  sav  to  thee?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  you  know  that  better  than  I  do, 

141 


MKMOIKS  OF  A    S1H)UTSMAX 

X'iktor  Alexiiiulrovilcli.  Here  you  are  going 
away,  and  not  a  single  word.  .  .  How  have  T  de- 
served swell  ti-eatnient:"  " 

"  A\'liat  a  (]iR'er  ereature  tliou  art!  What  can 
1  dor" 

"  Voii  inii>ht  say  one  little  word.  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  thou  'rt  wound  uj)  to  saj'  the  same 
tiling  over  and  over," — he  said  testily,  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"  Don't  l)e  angry,  Viktor  Alexandrovitch," — 
.she  added  hurriedly,  hardly  able  to  repress  her 
tears. 

"  I  'm  not  angry,  only  thou  art  so  stupid.  .  .  . 
What  is  it  thou  wantest?  I  can't  marry  thee,  can 
1  '.  1  cant,  can  I  ?  Well,  then,  what  is  it  thou  dost 
want:*  What?"  (He  turned  his  face  toward 
her,  as  though  awaiting  an  answer,  and  sjjread  his 
fingers  far  apart.) 

"  I  want  nothing nothing," — she  re- 
plied, stammering,  and  barely  venturing  to 
.stretch  out  to  him  her  trembling  arms: — "but 
yet,  if  you  would  sav  only  one  little  word  in  fare- 
well.  ..." 

And  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face  in  a 
torrent. 

"  Weil,  there  she  goes!  She  's  begun  to  cry," 
said  X^iktor  coldly,  pulling  his  cap  forw^ard  over 
liis  eyes. 

"  T  want  nothing," — she  went  on,  sobbing,  and 
C()\erino-  her  face  with  both  hands; — "but  how 

142 


THE  TRYST 

do  I  stand  now  with  my  family,  what  is  my  posi- 
tion? and  what  will  happen  to  me,  what  will  be- 
come of  me,  unhappy  one?  They  will  marry  off 
the  poor  deserted  one  to  a  man  she  does  not  love. 
....  Woe  is  me !  " 

"  O,  go  on,  go  on," — muttered  Viktor  in  an  un- 
dertone, shifting  from  foot  to  foot  where  he 
stood. 

"  And  if  he  would  say  only  one  word,  just  one. 
.  .  .  .  such  as:   '  Akulina,  1 '  " 

Sudden  sobs,  which  rent  her  breast,  prevented 
her  finishing  her  sentence — she  fell  face  down- 
ward on  the  grass,  and  wept  bitterly,  bitterly. 
.  .  .  Her  whole  body  was  convulsively  agitated, 

the  back  of  her  neck  fairly  heaved 

Her  long-suppressed  woe  had  burst  forth,  at 
last,  in  a  flood.  Viktor  stood  over  her,  stood 
there  a  while,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
then  wheeled  round,  and  marched  off  with  long 
strides. 

Several  minutes  elapsed She  quieted 

down,  raised  her  head,  glanced  around,  and 
clasped  her  hands ;  she  tried  to  run  after  him,  but 
her  limbs  gave  way  under  her — she  fell  on  her 

knees I   could  not   restrain  myself,   and 

rushed  to  her;  but  no  sooner  had  she  glanced  at 
me  than  strength  from  some  source  made  its  ap- 
pearance,—  she  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  faint  shriek, 
and  vanished  behind  the  trees,  leaving  her  flowers 
scattered  on  the  ground. 

143 


>If:M(MRS   OF   A    SPORTSMAX 

1  nIixkI  tlicif  lor  a  wliilc,  picked  up  the  bunch 
of  coni-Howers,  aiul  emerged  from  tlie  grove  into 
the  Helds.  The  sun  hung  low  in  the  palely-clear 
skv,  its  ravs,  too.  seemed  to  liave  grown  ])allid, 
somehow,  and  cold:  tliey  did  not  beam,  they  dis- 
.seminated  an  even,  almost  watery  light.  Xot 
more  tlian  half  an  hour  remained  before  night- 
fall, and  the  sunset  glow  was  only  just  begin- 
ning to  kindle.  A  gusty  breeze  dashed  swiftly 
to  meet  me  across  the  yellow,  dried-up  stubble- 
field;  small,  ^varped  leaves  rose  hastily  before  it, 
and  darted  past,  across  the  road,  along  the  edge 
of  the  \NOO(ls;  the  side  of  the  grove,  turned  toward 
the  field  like  a  wall,  was  all  quivering  and  spark- 
liiig  with  a  drizzling  glitter,  distinct  but  not  bril- 
liant: on  tlie  reddish  turf,  on  the  blades  of  grass, 
oil  the  straws,  everywhere  around,  gleamed  and 
undulated  the  innumerable  threads  of  autumnal 
spiders'  webs.  I  halted.  ...  I  felt  sad:  athwart 
the  cheerful  though  chilly  smile  of.  fading  nature, 
the  mournful  tei-ror  of  not  far-distant  winter 
seemed  to  be  creeping  up.  High  above  me,  cleav- 
ing the  air  heavily  and  sharply  with  its  wings,  a 
cautious  I'aven  flew  past,  cast  a  sidelong  glance 
at  me,  soared  aloft  and,  floating  on  outstretched 
wings,  disa])peared  behind  the  forest,  croaking 
s])asmo(iieal]y:  a  large  flock  of  ])igeons  fluttered 
sharply  from  the  tliresliing-floor  and,  suddenly 
rising  in  a  cloud,  eagerly  dispersed  over  the  fields 
— a  sign  of  autumn!   Some  one  was  driving  past 

144 


THE  TRYST 

behind   the   bare   hill,   iiis   empty   cart   runi])lino- 
loudly.   .   .   . 

I  returned  home;  but  the  image  of  poor  Akii- 
lina  did  not  leave  my  mind  for  a  long  time,  and 
her  corn-flowers,  long  since  withered,  I  have  pre- 
served to  this  day.  .  .  . 


VII 

HAMLET  OF  SHSHTCHIGRY  COUNTY 

l)ri?TX(;  one  of  my  excursions,  I  received  an  in^^ 
\  itation  to  dine  with  a  wealthy  landed  proprietor, 
who  was  also  a  sportsman,  Alexander  Mikhailo- 
\itc'ii  (;***.  His  large  village  was  situated 
five  versts  distant  from  tlie  tiny  hamlet  where  I 
had  settled  down  at  that  time.  I  donned  my 
dress-suit,  without  which  I  would  not  advise  any 
one  to  leave  home,  even  on  a  hunting-expedition, 
and  set  off  for  Alexander  ^likhailovitch's  house. 
The  (hnner  was  ai)pointed  for  six  o'clock;  I  ar- 
rived at  five,  and  found  a  large  number  of  nobles, 
ill  uiiifoiins,  civilian  garb,  and  other  arrays,  al- 
ready there.  The  host  received  me  cordially,  but 
immediately  ran  off  to  the  butler's  pantry.  He 
was  expecting  an  important  dignitary  and  felt  a 
certain  pei-tur})ation,  which  was  entirely  incom- 
jjatible  with  his  independent  position  in  the 
world  and  his  wealth.  Alexander  Mikhailo- 
vitch  had  never  married,  and  did  not  like  women; 
it  was  bachelor  society  which  assembled  at  his 
house.  He  lived  on  a  grand  scale,  had  aug- 
mented and  refitted  his  ancestral  mansion  in  mag- 
nificent stvle,  imi)ovted  every  year  from  Moscow 


HAMLET    OF    SIISHTCHIGRY 

fifteen  thousand  rubles'  worth  of  wine,  and,  alto- 
gether, enjoyed  the  greatest  respect.  Alexander 
Mikhailovitch  had  long  since  resigned  from  the 

service,  and  aspired  to  no  honours What, 

then,  induced  him  to  invite  the  dignitary  to  be  his 
guest,  and  agitate  himself  from  daybreak  on  the 
day  of  the  ceremonious  dinner?  That  is  a  point 
which  remains  shrouded  in  the  gloom  of  obscu- 
rity, as  a  certain  attorney  of  my  acquaintance  was 
wont  to  say  when  asked  whether  he  accepted 
bribes  from  willing  givers. 

On  parting  from  my  host,  I  began  to  stroll 
through  the  rooms.  Almost  all  the  guests  were 
entire  strangers  to  me ;  a  dozen  men  were  already 
seated  at  the  card-tables.  Among  the  number  of 
these  devotees  of  preference  were  two  military 
men  with  noble  but  somewhat  worn  countenances ; 
several  civilians  in  tight,  tall  stocks  and  with  pen- 
dent, dyed  moustaches,  such  as  are  possessed  only 
by  decided  but  well-intentioned  persons  (these 
well-intentioned  persons  were  pompously  gather- 
ing up  their  cards,  and  casting  sidelong  glances 
at  those  who  approached  them,  but  without  turn- 
ing their  heads)  ;  and  five  or  six  officials  of  the  dis- 
trict with  rotund  paunches,  plump,  perspiring 
hands,  and  discreetly-impassive  feet  (these  gen- 
tlemen were  talking  in  low  tones,  smiling  benig- 
nantly  on  all  sides,  holding  their  cards  tightly 
against  their  shirt-fronts,  and,  when  they 
trumped,  they  did  not  bang  the  table,  but,  on  the 

147 


MKMOIHS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

coiitiarv  (lr.>iM'^»'  *''^""  '''^^''^'^'  '^^'^'^  ^"^  luululating 
inovciiR-iit  (.11  the  orcrn  cloth,  and  wlien  they 
gathcml  in  their  tricks  they  produced  a  light,  ex- 
tremely courteous  and  decorous  grating  noise). 
The  rJst  of  the  no])les  were  sitting  on  the  divans 
and  huddling  in  groups  round  the  doors  and  win- 
dows: one  landed  proprietor,  no  longer  young 
hut  of  eifeniinate  ai)pearance,  was  standing  in  a 
corner,  (piaking  and  hlushing,  and  twisting  his 
watch-chain  on  his  stomach  with  perturhation,  al- 
tliougli  no  one  was  paying  any  attention  to  him; 
other  gentlemen,  in  round-tailed  dress-coats  and 
checked  trousers,  the  work  of  a  ^Moscow  tailor,  the 
|)erpetual  meml>er  of  the  guild  and  master,  Firs 
Kliukhin,  were  chatting  with  unwonted  ease  of 
manner  and  alertness,  freely  turning  their  fat  and 
hare  napes;  a  young  man  of  twenty,  mole-eyed 
and  fair-haired,  clad  in  hlack  from  head  to  foot, 
was    evidently    intimidated,    hut    smiled    spite- 

fully.  .  .  . 

I  was  beginning  to  be  somewhat  bored,  how- 
ever, when  suddenly  I  was  joined  by  a  certain 
\"oinitzyn,  a  young  man  who  had  not  completed 
his  studies,  and  wlio  lived  in  xVlexander  ^likhai- 

lovitcir.s  house  in  the  capacity it  w^ould 

be  difficult  to  say  in  precisely  what  capacity.  lie 
was  a  capital  shot,  and  knew  how  to  train  dogs. 
1  had  known  him  previously,  in  ^Moscow.  He 
belonged  to  tlie  category'  of  young  men  who,  at 
every  examination,  "  played  the  dumb  game," — 

148 


HAIMLET   OF   STTSHTCHIGRY 

that  is  to  say,  did  not  answci-  the  professors'  ques- 
tions by  a  single  word.  Tliese  gentlemen  were 
also  called  sidewhiskerites,  by  wa}^  of  fine  lan- 
guage. (This  happened  long  ago,  as  you  can 
easily  see.)  This  is  the  way  it  was  done:  Voinit- 
zyn,  for  example,  was  called  up.  Voinitzyn — 
wlio,  up  to  that  moment,  had  been  sitting  motion- 
less and  bolt  uprigiit  on  liis  bench,  bathed  from 
head  to  foot  in  boiling-liot  perspiration,  and  roll- 
ing his  eyes  about  slowly  but  stupidly — rose,  has- 
tily buttoned  liis  undress  uniform  up  to  the 
throat,  and  stole  sideways  to  the  table  of  the  ex- 
aminers.— "  Please  take  a  ticket,"  the  professor 
said  to  him,  pleasantly.  Voinitzyn  stretched  out 
his  hand,  and  tremulously  touched  the  package  of 
tickets  with  his  fingers. — "  Be  so  good  as  not  to 
pick  and  choose," — remarked  some  irritable  old 
man  who  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  a 
professor  from  some  other  faculty,  who  had  con- 
ceived a  sudden  hatred  for  the  unlucky  sidewhis- 
kerite.  Voinitzyn  yielded  to  his  fate,  took  a  ticket, 
showed  the  number,  and  went  off  and  took  his 
seat  near  the  window,  while  the  man  ahead  of  him 
answered  his  question.  At  the  window,  Voinit- 
zyn never  took  his  eyes  from  the  ticket,  unless  it 
was  to  gaze  about  him  slowly,  as  before,  and 
otherwise  he  did  not  move  a  limb.  But  now  the 
man  ahead  of  him  has  answered  his  question,  and 
the  professors  say  to  him:  "  Good,  you  may  go," 
or  even:  "  Good,  sir,  very  good,  sir,"  according  to 

149 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMxVN 

his  capacities.  'I'licii  they  call  up  A^iinitzyn; — 
Voinit/yn  rises,  and  ai)pn)aches  the  table  with 
firm  steps. — "  Head  your  ticket,"  they  say  to  him. 
X'oitu'tzyu  lifts  the  ticket  to  his  very  nose  with 
l)()tii  hands,  slowly  reads  it,  and  slowly  lowers  his 
hands. — "  \Vell,  sir,  please  give  the  answer,"  lan- 
^aiidly  articulates  the  same  professor,  throwing 
hack  his  body,  and  folding  his  arms  on  his  chest. 
A  piofonnd  silence  reigns. — "  \Vhat  have  you  to 
sayC" — \'oinitzyn  maintains  silence.  He  be- 
i»ins  to  net  on  the  nerves  of  the  old  man  who  is 
not  concerned. — "Come,  say  something!" — My 
\'oinit/yn  remains  silent,  just  as  though  he  had 
expired.  His  closely-clip})ed  nape  rears  itself  up 
in  front  of  the  curious  glances  of  all  his  conn*ades. 
The  eyes  of  the  meddlesome  old  man  are  ready  to 
])()p  out  of  his  head:  he  has  finally  arrived  at  de- 
testation of  Voinitzyn.— "  But  this  is  strange," 
— I'cmarks  the  other  examiner: — "  Why  do  you 
stand  there  like  a  dumb  man?  come  now,  don't  you 
know?  if  you  do,  then  s])eak." — "  Allow  me  to 
take  another  ticket,"  articulates  the  unlucky 
night  dully.  The  professors  exchange  glances. 
— "  AVell,  do  so," — replies  the  head-examiner, 
w  itii  a  wave  of  the  hand.  Again  Voinitzyn  takes 
a  ticket,  again  he  goes  off  to  the  window%  again 
he  returns  to  the  table,  and  again  he  maintains 
silence  like  that  of  a  dead  man.  The  unconcerned 
old  man  is  ready  to  devour  him  alive.  At  last 
they  (lri\e  him  off,  and  ])lace  a  ciy)her  against  his 

1.50 


HAMLET    OF    SlISHTCIIIcaiY 

name.  You  think:  "  Now  he  will  go  away,  at 
least?"  Nothing  of  the  sort !  He  returns  to  his 
place,  sits  there  in  the  same  impassive  manner 
until  the  end  of  the  examination,  and  as  he  takes 
his  departure  he  exclaims:  "  Well,  that  was  like 
a  hot  bath!  what  a  tough  job!  " — And  he  roams 
about  jMoscow  all  that  day,  from  time  to  time 
clutching  at  his  head,  and  bitterly  upbraiding  his 
unhappy  lot.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  does  not 
touch  a  book,  and  the  next  morning  the  same 
story  is  repeated.  So  then,  this  Voinitzyn  joined 
me.  We  chatted  together  about  JMoscow,  about 
sport. 

"  Would  n't  you  like  to  have  me  introduce  you 
to  the  leading  wit  of  these  parts?  " — he  suddenly 
whispered  to  me. 

"  Pray  do." 

Voinitzyn  led  me  to  a  man  of  short  stature, 
with  a  lofty  curled  crest  and  a  moustache,  in  a  cin- 
namon-b]-own  dress-coat  and  a  flowered  necker- 
chief. His  bilious,  mobile  features  really  did  ex- 
hale cleverness  and  malice.  His  lips  curled 
incessantly  in  a  fleeting,  caustic  smile;  his  small 
black  eyes,  which  he  kept  screwed  up,  peered  forth 
audaciously  from  beneath  uneven  lashes.  B}^  his 
side  stood  a  landed  proprietor,  a  broad,  soft,  sweet 
man, — a  regular  Sugar-Honey, — and  with  only 
one  eve.  He  lauffhed  in  advance  at  the  witticisms 
of  the  little  man,  and  seemed  to  be  fairly  raptur- 
ous with  delight.    Voinitzyn  presented  me  to  the 

151 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

wit.  whose  name  was  Piotr  Petmvitch  Lupikhin. 
We  made  ae(]uaiiitance,  and  exehanged  the  pre- 
liminary greetings. 

*•  And  allow  me  to  iiitrodiiee  to  you  my  best 
friend." ^said  Lupikhin  suddenly,  in  a  sharp 
voice,  seizino-  the  sweet  proprietor  by  the  hand. — 
"  Come  now,  don't  hang  back,  Kirila  Selifan- 
itch," — he  added : — "  nobody  is  going  to  bite 
\()ii.  Here,  sir," — he  went  on,  wdiile  the  discon- 
certed Kirila  Selifanitch  bowed  as  awkwardly  as 
thongh  his  paunch  were  falhng  off: — "  Here,  sir, 
I  recommend  him  to  you,  sir,  a  splendid  noble. 
He  enjoyed  excellent  health  up  to  the  age  of 
fifty,  and  all  of  a  sudden  took  it  into  his  head  to 
put  himself  through  a  course  of  treatment  for  his 
eyes,  in  consecjuence  of  which  he  has  lost  the 
siiiht  of  one  of  them.     Ever  since  then,  he  has 

been  treating  his  peasants  with  like  success 

Well,  and  they,  of  course,  with  the  same  devo- 
ion  .... 

"  What  a  fellow  he  is!  " — muttered  Kirila  Se- 
lifanitch— and  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Si)eak  ont,  my  friend — ekh,  finish  what  you 
were  about  to  say," — interpolated  Lupikhin. — 
"  Whv,  the  first  vou  know,  vou  may  be  elected 
judge,  and  you  will  be  elected,  see  if  you  are  n't. 
Well,  of  course  the  assessors  will  do  your  think- 
ing for  you,  I  suppose;  for,  you  know%  't  is  neces- 
sary, in  case  of  need,  to  understand  how  to  enun 

152 


HAMLET    OF    SHSIITCIIK^RY 

ciate  other  people's  ideas,  at  least.  Perhaps  the 
Governor  will  drop  in; — he  will  ask:  'What 
makes  the  judge  stammer? '  \Vell,  let  us  assume 
that  they  tell  him:  '  He  has  had  a  stroke  of  pa- 
ralysis.'— '  Then  bleed  him,'  he  will  say.  And 
that  is  unseemly  in  your  position,  you  must  admit 
yourself." 

The  sweet  landed  proprietor  fairly  roared  with 
laughter. 

"  There,  you  see,  he  's  laughing," — pursued 
Lupikhin,  with  a  vieious  glance  at  Kirila  Seli- 
fanitch's  heaving  paunch. — "  And  why  should  n't 
he  laugh?" — he  added,  addressing  me: — "he's 
full-fed,  healthy,  has  no  children,  his  serfs  are  not 
mortgaged,  and  he  gives  them  medical  treat- 
ment,— his  wife  is  rather  crack-brained."  (Ki- 
rila Selifanitch  turned  somewhat  aside,  as  though 
he  had  not  heard,  and  went  on  roaring  with 
laughter.) — "  I  laugh  also,  and  my  wife  eloped 
with  a  surveyor."     (He  grinned.) 

"  Why,  did  n't  you  know  that?  Certainly!  She 
just  took  and  ran  away,  and  left  a  letter  for  me: 
'  jNIy  dear  Piotr  Petrovitch,'  says  she,  '  excuse 
me:  carried  away  by  passion,  I  am  departing 
with  the  friend  of  my  heart.  .  .  .'  And  the  sur- 
veyor fascinated  her  simply  because  he  did  n't  cut 
his  finger-nails,  and  wore  trousers  like  tights. 
You  are  surprised?  Here  's  a  frank  man,  you 
say. — I-i,     good     heavens,     we    steppe-dwellers 

153 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

speak  the  tnitli  straight  out.      But   let  us  step 
•isiilc \\'1»\  shoukl  we  stand  by  the  future 

jiidufef 

He  took  my  arm,  and  we  walked  off  to  the 

u  intioNv. 

••  1  hear  the  reputation  of  a  wit  here," — he  said 
to  nie  in  the  eourse  of  our  eonversation : — "  don't 
vou  helieve  it.  I  am  simply  an  embittered  man, 
and  I  am  shearing  aloud:  that  is  why  I  am  so  free 
and  easy.  xVnd,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  why  should 
1  stand  on  ceremony?  I  don't  care  a  copper  for 
anybodx's  opinion,  and  am  not  in  quest  of  any- 
thing: I  am  spiteful, — what  of  that!  A  spiteful 
man  stands  in  no  need  of  brains,  at  least.  And 
you  would  n"t  believe  how  refreshing  it  is.  .  .  . 
Here,  now,  for  example, — here  now%  just  look  at 
our  host  I  Xow  why' is  he  rushing  about,  for 
mercy's  sake,  constantly  looking  at  his  watch, 
smiHng,  })erspiring,  assuming  a  pompous  mien, 
torturing  us  with  hunger?  A  pretty  thing,  truly, 
a  dignitary!  There,  there  he  is  rushing  about 
again, — he  has  even  begun  to  limp, — just  look!  " 

xVnd  Lupikhin  laughed  shrilly. 

"  'T  is  a  great  pity  that  there  are  no  ladies," — 
he  went  on,  with  a  deep  sigh; — "  it  is  a  bachelor 
(hnner, — and  there  's  no  profit  for  the  likes  of  us 
in  that.  Look,  look," — he  suddenly  exclaimed: 
— "  yonder  comes  Prince  Kozelsky — that  tall 
man  with  the  beard,  in  yellow  gloves.  It  is  im- 
mediately evident  that  he  has  been  abroad  .... 

154 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHIGRY 

and  he  always  arrives  so  late.  I  '11  tell  you  one 
thing,  though:  he's  as  stupid  as  a  pair  of  mer- 
cliant's  horses;  and  you  just  ought  to  see  how 
condescendingly  he  talks  to  men  like  me,  how 
maffuanimouslv  he  deigns  to  smile  at  the  amiahle 
attentions  of  our  hungry  wives  and  daughters! 
....  And  he  sometimes  makes  a  joke,  although 
he  lives  here  only  temporarily; — but  what  jokes! 
Precisely  as  though  he  were  sawing  at  a  hawser 
with  a  dull  knife.  He  can't  endure  me.  ...  I  '11 
go  and  make  my  bow  to  him." 

And  Lupikhin  hastened  to  meet  the  Prince. 

"  And  yonder  comes  my  personal  foe," — he 
said,  suddenly  returning  to  me: — "do  you  see 
that  fat  man,  with  the  dark -brown  face,  and  the 
brush  on  his  head, — yonder, — the  one  who  has  his 
cap  clutched  in  his  hand,  and  is  making  his  way 
along  the  wall,  and  darting  glances  on  all  sides, 
like  a  wolf?  I  sold  him  for  four  hundred  rubles 
a  horse  which  was  worth  one  thousand  rubles,  and 
that  dumb  beast  now  has  a  perfect  right  to  despise 
me ;  but  he  is  so  devoid  of  capacity  for  thinking, 
especially  of  a  morning,  before  tea,  or  immedi- 
ately after  dinner,  that  if  you  saj^  to  him :  '  Good 
morning,'  he  will  reply:  '  what,  sir? '  And  yonder 
comes  the  General,"  went  on  Lupikhin: — "  a  ci- 
vilian general  on  the  retired  list,  a  bankrupt  gen- 
eral. He  has  a  daughter  made  of  beet-root  sugar 
and  a  scrofula  factory.  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  I  did  n't 
mean  to  say  that  ....  well,  you  understand. 

155 


.ArE:NroTKs  of  a  sportsman 

Ah'  and  tlit-  arcliitect  has  got  Jiere!  A  German, 
aiul  witli  a  iiioustachc,  and  does  n't  know  his  busi- 
ness,— astounding! — But  why  should  he  know  his 
business  f  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  take  bribes,  and  set 
up  as  many  columns  and  pillars  as  possible  for 
our  ancient  nobility."  ^ 

Again  Lupikhin  began  to  laugh  violently. 
.  .  .  Hut  suddenly  a  breathless  agitation  spread 
all  ()\cr  the  house.  The  dignitary  had  arrived. 
Tiic  host  fairlv  Hew  headlong  to  the  anteroom, 
licliind  him  scurried  several  devoted  domestics 
and  zealous  guests.  .  .  .  The  noisy  conversation 
was  converted  into  a  soft,  agreeable  murmur,  re- 
sembling the  humming  of  bees  in  their  native  hive 
in  springtime.  The  irrepressible  wasp,  Lupi- 
khin. and  the  magnificent  drone,  Kozelsky, 
alone  did  not  lower  their  voices.  .  .  .  And  now, 
at  last,  tlie  queen-bee  entered — the  dignitary  en- 
tered. Hearts  flew  to  greet  him,  heavy  seated 
bodies  rose;  even  the  landed  proprietor  wdio  had 
bought  Lupikliin's  horse  cheap,  even  that  pro- 
prietor tlu'ust  his  chin  into  his  chest.  The  dig- 
nitary preser\'ed  his  dignity  to  perfection:  nod- 
ding his  liead  backward,  as  though  bowing,  he 
uttered  a  few  words  of  approval,  each  one  of 
which  began  with  the  letter  a,  enunciated  with 
a  drawl  through  the  nose; — with  indignation 
which  reached  the  pitch  of  biting,  he  stared  at 

'  A  pun  is  here  intended.     Slolh,  a  pillar  or  ])ost,  stolhovoi  dvo- 
ryaniit    (c<)liiMin-nol)lc),    a    nobleman    of    ancient    family.— Trans 

LATOb. 

156 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHIGRY 

Prince  Kozelsky's  beard,  and  gave  the  ruined 
civil  General  with  the  factory  and  the  daughter 
the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand.  After  a  few 
moments,  during  the  coiu'se  of  which  the  digni- 
tary had  managed  to  remark  twice  that  he  was 
very  glad  he  had  not  arrived  late  for  dinner,  the 
whole  company  wended  their  way  to  the  dining- 
room,  big-wigs  at  the  head. 

Is  it  necessary  for  me  to  describe  to  the  reader 
how  the  dignitary  was  given  the  principal  seat, 
between  the  civil  /General  and  the  INIarshal  of  No- 
bility for  the  Government,  a  man  with  a  free  and 
dignified  expression  of  countenance,  which  thor- 
oughly matched  his  starched  shirt-front,  his  capa- 
cious waistcoat,  and  his  circular  snuff-box  filled 
with  French  snuff; — how  the  host  fussed  and  ran 
about,  and  Inistled,  and  urged  the  guests  to  eat, 
bestowed  a  smile  in  passing  on  the  dignitary's 
back,  and,  standing  in  one  corner,  like  a  school- 
boy, hurriedly  swallowed  a  plate  of  soup,  or  a  bit 
of  roast  beef; — how  the  butler  served  a  fish  an 
arshin  and  a  half  ^  in  length,  and  with  a  nosegay 
in  its  mouth ; — how  the  liveried  servants,  surly  of 
aspect,  gruffly  plied  each  nobleman  now  with 
Malaga,  now  with  dry  Madeira,  and  how  almost 
all  the  noblemen,  especially  the  elderly  ones, 
drank  glass  after  glass,  as  though  resigning 
themselves  to  a  sense  of  duty: — how,  in  conclu- 
sion, bottles  of  champagne  were  cracked,  and  they 

^  Forty-two  inoC-3S. — Traxslatou. 

157 


Ml^.MOlKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

lK.«ran  to  tlriiik  toasts  to  the  health  of  various 
|>ersoiisf  All  this  is,  prohahly,  hut  too  familiar  to 
the  reader.  IJut  what  struek  nie  as  especially 
noteworthy  was  an  anecdote,  related  hy  the  dig- 
nitarv  himself  amid  universal  iovous  silence. 

Some  one  the  ruined  General  I  think  it  was, 
a  man  aeciuainted  with  the  newest  literatiu'e — al- 
luded to  the  influence  of  women  in  general,  and 
upon  young  men  in  particular. — "  Yes,  yes," — 
put  ill  tlif  dignitary: — "  that  is  true;  young  men 
should  he  kept  under  strict  discipline,  otherwise 
they  are  likely  to  go  out  of  their  heads  over  every 
petticoat."  (A  smile  of  childlike  mirth  flitted 
across  the  faces  of  all  the  guests;  the  gratitude 
of  one  landed  ])roprietor  even  glistened  in  his 
glance.) — "  For  young  men  are  foolish."  (The 
dignitary,  prohahly  with  a  view  to  increasing 
their  imixntance, sometimes  altered  the  generallj^- 
received  accentuation,  of  words.) — "Now,  there  's 
my  son  Ivjin,  for  instance,"  he  continued:  "the 
fool  is  only  twenty  years  of  age,  and  all  of  a  sud- 
den he  says  to  me:  '  Dear  little  father,  permit  me 
to  marrv.'    I  sav  to  him:  '  Serve  first,  thou  fool! ' 

....   Well,    then   came   despair,   tears 

hut  1  *m  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  ."  (The  words 
"  you  know  "  the  dignitary  uttered  with  his  helly 
rather  than  with  Jiis  lips;  then  he  remained  silent 
a  little  while,  and  cast  a  majestic  glance  at  his 
neighhoui-  the  C^eneral,  at  the  same  time  elevating 
his  eyehrous  more  than  one  might  have  expected 

158 


HAMLET    OF    SHSIITCHICxRY 

from  liiin.  The  civilian  General  bowed  his  head 
pleasantly  somewhat  on  one  side,  and  winked  the 
eye  which  was  turned  toward  the  dignitary  with 
extreme  rapidity.) — "And  what  do  you  think," 
— began  the  dignitary  again,  "  now  he  writes  to 
me,  saying:  '  Thanks,  father,  for  having  taught 
the  fool  a  lesson.'  ....  That 's  the  way  one 
must  proceed." — All  the  guests  entirely  agreed 
with  the  narrator,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
seemed  to  brighten  up  as  a  result  of  the  pleasure 
and  instruction  which  they  had  received.  .  .  . 
After  dinner,  the  whole  company  rose  and  with- 
drew to  the  drawing-room  with  great  but  decor- 
ous   uproar,    as    though    it    were    permitted    on 

this    occasion They    sat    down    to    play 

cards. 

I  managed  to  while  away  the  evening,  and  hav- 
ing enjoined  my  coachman  to  have  my  calash 
ready  at  five  o'clock  on.  the  following  morning,  I 
retired  to  rest.  But  it  was  my  lot  to  make  ac- 
quaintance on  that  same  day  with  still  another 
remarkable  man. 

In  consequence  of  the  multitude  of  guests  who 
had  arrived,  no  one  had  a  bedroom  to  himself.  In 
the  small,  greenish,  and  rather  damp  chamber 
to  which  Alexander  INIikhailovitch's  butler  con- 
ducted me,  there  was  already  another  guest,  com- 
pletely undressed.  On  catching  sight  of  me,  he 
briskly  dived  under  the  coverlet,  covered  himself 
up  with  it  to  his  very  nose,  nestled  about  a  little 

159 


MKMOIKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

in  the  spoil t^ry  feather-bed,  and  quieted  down, 
peerin-r  l*>i'tli  keenly  from  ])eneath  the  round  bor- 
(kr  of  liis  eollon  nigliteap.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
other  l)ed  (there  were  only  two  in  the  room),  un- 
dressed, and  lay  down  in  the  damp  sheets.     ]My 

neiirlibonr    turned    over    in    his    bed I 

wished  him  good  ni«4ht. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed.  Despite  my  efforts,  I 
eould  not  ^et  to  sleep;  useless  and  ill-defined 
thou«Ahts  followed  one  another  in  endless  succes- 
sion, persistently  and  monotonously,  like  the 
buckets  of  a  pumping-machine. 

"  Vou  are  not  sleepy,  apparently," — remarked 
my  neighbour. 

"  As  you  see,"— I  replied.—"  And  you  're  not 
sleepy,  either?  " 

"  1  'm  never  sleepy." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  fall  asleep  I  don't  know  why;  I 
lie  and  lie.  and  then  get  to  sleep." 

"  But  why  do  you  go  to  bed  before  you  feel 
like  sleeping?  " 

"  Whv,  what  would  vou  have  me  do?  " 

I  made  no  answer  to  my  neighbour's  question. 

"  I  'm  surprised,"  he  went  on,  after  a  brief 
pause: — "  that  there  are  no  fleas  here.  I  thought 
they  were  everywhere.," 

"  ^'^ou  seem  to  regret  them," — I  remarked. 

"  Xo,  I  don't  regret  them;  but  I  like  logical 
sequence  in  everything." 

160 


HAJNILET    OF    SHSITTC  II  KiRY 

"  You  don't  say  so," — I  reniurked  to  niystlf : 
"  what  words  lie  uses!  " 

Again  my  neighbour  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Would  vou  like  to  make  a  bet  with  me?  " — 
he  suddenly  said,  in  quite  a  loud  voice. 

"What  about?" 

I  was  beginning  to  find  my  neighbour  amus- 
ing. 

"  H'm  ....  what  about?  Why,  about  this: 
I  'm  convinced  that  you  take  me  for  a  fool." 

"  Good  gracious," — I  murmured  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  For  a  steppe-dweller,  an  ignoramus. — Con- 

X  Coo»      •      •      • 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you," — 
I  returned. — "  How  have  you  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion? .  .  .  ." 

"  How?  Why,  from  the  mere  sound  of  your 
voice:  you  answ^er  me  so  carelessly.  .  .  .  But 
I  'm  not  in  the  least  what  you  think.  .  .  ." 

"  Permit  me  ..." 

"  No,  do  you  permit  me.  In  the  first  place,  I 
speak  French  quite  as  well  as  you  do,  and  German 
even  better;  in  the  second  place,  I  have  spent 
three  years  abroad:  I  have  lived  eight  months  in 
Berlin  alone.  I  have  studied  Hegel,  my  dear  sir, 
I  know  Goethe  by  heart;  more  than  that,  I  was 
for  a  long  time  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a'  Ger- 
man professor,  and  married  at  home  a  consump- 
tive young  gentlewoman, — a  bald,  but  very  re- 

161 


me:moirs  of  a  sportsman 

inarkal)lc  iiulix  icliuil.  Consequently,  I  am  a 
l)crrv  from  the  same  field  as  yourself;  I  'm  not  a 
rustic  steppe-ihveller,  as  you  suppose.  .  .  .  I  also 
am  bitten  with  reflex  action,  and  there  's  nothing 
(hreet  alM)ut  me.   .   .   ." 

I  raised  my  liead,  and  looked  at  the  eccentric 
w  ilh  redoubled  attention.  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
night-lami)  I  could  barely  distinguish  his  fea- 
tures. 

"  There  now,  you  are  staring  at  me," — he  went 
on,  adjusting  his  nightcap, — "  and,  probably,  you 
are  asking  yourself: '  How  comes  it  that  I  did  not 
notice  liim  to-day? '  I  will  tell  you  why  you  did 
not  notice  me: — because  1  do  not  raise  my  voice; 
because  1  hide  behind  other  people,  stand  behind 
doors,  converse  with  no  one ;  because  the  butler,  as 
he  passes  me  with  a  tray,  elevates  his  elbow  in  ad- 
vance on  a  level  with  my  breast.  .  .  .  And 
wlience  does  all  this  proceed?  From  two  causes: 
in  the  first  place,  I  am  poor,  and  in  the  second,  I 
am  resigned.  .  .  .  Speak  the  truth,  you  did  n't 
observe  me,  did  you?  " 

"  I  really  did  not  have  the  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  wtII,  yes," — he  interrupted  me: — "I 
knew  it." 

He  raised  himself  half-way,  and  folded  his 
arms;  the  long  shadow  of  his  nightcap  flitted 
from  the  wall  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Come  now,  confess," — he  suddenly  added, 
casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  me: — "  I  must  seem 

162 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHIGRY 

to  you  a  great  eccentric,  an  original,  as  they  say, 
or,  perhaps,  even  something  still  worse;  perhaps 
you  think  that  I  pretend  to  be  an  eccentric?" 

"  I  must  repeat  to  you,  once  more,  that  I  do  not 
know  you.  .  ." 

He  cast  down  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  Why  I  have  so  unexpectedly  set  to  talking 
with  you, — with  a  man  who  is  an  entire  stranger 
to  me, — the  Lord — the  Lord  only  knows!  "  (He 
sighed.)  " 'T  is  not  in  consequence  of  the  af- 
finity of  our  souls !  Both  you  and  I  are  respecta- 
ble persons,  egoists;  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
me,  neither  have  I  the  slightest  thing  to  do  with 
you;  isn't  that  so?  But  neither  of  us  is  sleepy. 
.  .  .  Why  not  have  a  chat  ?  I  'm  in  the  mood,  and 
that  rarely  ha])pens  with  me.  I  'm  timid,  you  see, 
and  not  timid  in  virtue  of  the  fact  that  I  am  a 
provincial,  without  official  rank,  a  poor  man,  but 
in  virtue  of  the  fact  that  I  am  a  frightfully  con- 
ceited man.  But  sometimes,  under  the  influence 
of  propitious  circumstances,  accidents,  which  I 
am  unable,  however,  either  to  define  or  foresee, 
my  timidity  disappears  completely,  as  on  the 
present  occasion,  for  instance.  You  might  set  me 
face  to  face  with  the  Dalai-Lama  himself  now, — 
and  I  'd  ask  him  for  a  pinch  of  snufF.  But  per- 
haps you  want  to  go  to  sleep?  " 

"  On  the  contrary," — I  hastily  returned: — "  I 
find  it  very  agreeable  to  chat  with  you." 

"  That  is,  I  amuse  you,  you  mean  to  say.  .  .  . 

163 


MKMOIRS   OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

So  imuh  tlu-  iK'tter.  ...  So  tlicn,  sir,  I  must  in- 
i'oiiii  you,  that  1  am  called  an  original  in  these 
parts:  that  is  to  say.  I  am  so  called  by  those  from 
wliosc  ton o IRS  my  name  chances,  accidentally,  to 
fall.  ali'iiLi'  witli  otlicr  trifling  things.  '  Xo  one  is 
urcatlv    concerned    as    to    mv    fate.'  .  .   .  They 

think  to  wound  me O  my  God!  if  they 

only  knew  .  .  .  why,  I  'm  perishing  precisely 
because  there  is  positively  nothing  original  about 
me,  nothing  except  such  sallies  as  my  present  con- 
versation witli  you,  for  example;  l)ut,  you  see, 
those  sallies  are  n't  worth  a  copper  coin.  That 's 
tlie  very  clieapest  and  most  vulgar  sort  of  origi- 
nality." 

lie  tui-ned  his  face  toward  me  and  w^aved  his 
hands. 

"  My  dear  sir!  " — he  exclaimed: — "  My  opin- 
ion is,  that  tlie  originals  are  the  only  people  who 
enjoy  life  on  earth;  they  alone  have  the  right  to 
live.  3lon  verre  nest  pas  grand,  mais  je  hois  dans 
mon  verre,  some  one  has  said. — ^You  see," — he 
added  in  an  undertone: — "what  pure  French  I 
speak.  \Vliat  care  I  if  a  man  has  a  great  and  ca- 
pacious head,  and  understands  everything,  knows 
a  great  deal,  and  keeps  abreast  of  the  times, — but 
iias  notliing  s])ecial  of  his  own!  It  merely  makes 
one  storeliouse  for  commonplaces  more  in  the 
world, — and  who  derives  any  satisfaction  out  of 
that?  Xo,  be  stupid  if  you  will,  only  do  it  in  your 
own  way!    Have  an  odour  of  your  own,  that's 

164 


HAMLF/r    OF    SIISIITCHiGRY 

what! — And  do  not  imagine  that  my  demands 

with   respect   to  that   odour   are   great 

God  forbid !  There  's  a  mass  of  such  originals :  no 
matter  in  what  direction  you  look,  you  behold  an 
original;  every  living  man  is  an  original,  but  for 
some  reason  I  have  n't  fallen  into  their  cate- 
gory!   .    o    . 

"  And  yet," — he  went  on,  after  a  brief  pause: 
—"what  expectations  1  aroused  in  my  youth! 
what  a  lofty  opinion  1  cherished  of  myself  before 
I  went  abroad,  and  diu'ing  the  early  days  after 
my  return  thence!  Well,  while  I  was  abroad,  I 
kept  on  the  alert,  I  always  made  my  way  about 
alone,  as  is  fitting  for  a  fellow  like  me,  who  under- 
stands everything,  is  up  to  everything ;  and  in  the 
end,  lo  and  behold, — he  has  n't  understood  the 
first  thing !  .  .  . 

"An  original,  an  original!  "^ — he  resumed, 
shaking  his  head  reproachfully.  .  o  .  "  They  call 
me  an  original as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  ap- 
pears that  there  is  n't  a  less  original  man  in  the 
world  than  your  most  humble  servant.  I  must 
have  been  born  in  imitation  of  some  one  else.  .  .  . 
By  heaven,  I  must!  I  exist  as  though  in  imita- 
tion of  the  writers  I  have  studied,  I  exist  in  the 
sweat  of  my  brow;  and  I  have  studied,  and  fallen 
in  love,  and  married,  in  conclusion,  just  as  though 
it  were  not  of  my  own  volition,  just  as  though  I 
were  performing  some  duty,  executing  some  les- 
son,— who  can  explain  it !  " 

165 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

lit  tore  llic  nightcap  from  his  head  and  tluiig 
it  on  tlic  hetl. 

"  Shall  1  Icll  you  the  story  of  my  life?" — he 
asked  me  in  a  spasmodic  voice: — "or,  rather,  a 
few  incidents  of  my  Hfe?  " 

"  Pray  do." 

"  C)r — no,  1  had  hetter  tell  you  how  I  came  to 
niarr\-.  For  marriage  is  an  important  affair,  the 
test-stone  of  every  man;  in  it,  as  in  a  mirror,  is  re- 
flected ....  Rut  tliat  c()m])arison  is  too  hack- 
neyed. ...  If  you  permit,  1  will  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff." 

lie  pulled  a  snuff-box  from  under  his  pillow, 
opened  it,  and  began  to  talk  again,  waving  the 
open  I)ox. 

"  Put  yourself  in  my  position,  my  dear  sir. — 
Judge  for  yoiu'self,  what  profit, — come  now,  for 
mercy's  sake,  tell  me, — what  profit  could  I  extract 
from  IlegeFs  encycloptedia?  Tell  me,  what  has 
that  encyclopfcdia  in  common  with  Russian  life? 
And  how  would  you  have  me  apply  it  to  our  ex- 
istence— and  not  that  encyclopiedia  alone,  but 
(Tcrman  philosophy  in  general  ....  I  will  say 
more — German  science?  " 

He  leaped  up  in  his  bed,  and  muttered  in  an  un- 
derto!ie.  viciouslv  setting-  his  teeth: 

"  Ah,  that 's  the  point,  that 's  the  point! 

Then  why  didst  thou  trot  off  abroad?  AVhy  didst 
not  thou  stay  at  home,  and  study  the  life  which 
surrounded  thee  on  the  spot?   Thou  wouldst  have 

106 


HAMLET    OF    SIISnTCTIIGRY 

learned  its  requirements  and  its  future,  and  thou 
wouldst  have  become  clear  concerning  tliine  own 
v^ocation,  so  to  speak.  .  .  .  But  good  gracious," 
— he  continued,  again  altering  his  voice,  as  though 
defending  himself  and  quailing: — "  how  is  a  man 
like  me  to  inform  himself  about  a  thing  concern- 
ing which  not  a  single  wiseacre  has  written  any- 
thing in  a  book!  I  would  be  glad  to  take  lessons 
from  it,  from  tliat  same  Russian  life, — but  it 
maintains  silence,  my  dear  little  dove.  '  Under- 
stand me,'  it  says,  'as  I  am;'  but  that  is  beyond  my 
power:  give  me  the  deductions,  present  to  me  the 

conclusion  of  the  matter The  conclusion? — 

'Here  is  the  conclusion  for  thee,'  people  say:  'just 
listen  to  our  Moscow  folks — they  're  nightin- 
gales, are  n't  they  ? ' — And  precisely  therein  lies 
the  calamity,  that  they  warble  like  Kursk  night- 
ingales, but  don't  talk  like  human  beings 

So  I  meditated  and  meditated, — you  see,  science 
is  the  same  everywhere,  apparently,  and  is  the 
only  genuine  thing, — and  took  and  set  off,  with 
God's  aid,  to  foreign  parts,  to  infidels.  .  .  .  What 
would  you  have,^ — I  was  besotted  with  youth,  w^ith 
pride.  I  was  n't  willing,  you  know,  to  swim  in  fat 
before  my  time,  although  't  is  healthy,  they  say. 
However,  the  person  who  has  not  been  endowed 
by  nature  with  flesh,  will  never  behold  fat  on  his 
body ! 

"  But  I  believe," — he  added,  after  reflecting  a 
while, — "  that  I  promised  to  narrate  to  you  how 

167 


ME.MOTHS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

1  came  ti)  yvt  married.  IJsten,  then.  In  the 
first  placr.  I  must  ini'orm  yoii  that  my  wife  is  no 
lnii«r(.i-  iii  thf  world:  in  the  second  place  .  .  .  . 
hut  ill  the  second  place,  I  perceive  that  I  mnst  tell 
vou  ahout  niv  vouth,  otherwise  vou  will  not  un- 

derstand    anything You    are    sure    you 

don't  want  to  go  to  sleep?  " 
■  No,  1  don't." 

"  A^'ery  good.  Just  listen  ....  how  vulgarly 
M  !•.  Kaiitagriukhin  is  snoring  yonder,  in  the  next 
room! — I  am  the  son  of  poor  parents, — parents, 
1  say,  hecause,  in  addition  to  a  mother,  there  is  a 
tradition  that  I  had  a  father  also.  I  do  not  re- 
memher  him;  thev  sav  that  he  was  a  man  of  lim- 
ited  eai)acity,  liad  a  huge  nose  and  freckles,  and 
took  snuff  up  one  nostril;  in  my  mother's  bed- 
room hung  his  portrait,  in  a  red  uniform  with  a 
hlack  collar  reaching  up  to  his  ears,  and  remarka- 
hly  hideous.  They  used  to  lead  me  past  it  on  my 
way  to  a  whipping,  and  on  such  occasions  my 
mother  always  pointed  it  out  to  me,  with  the  re- 
mark: 'Thou  wouldst  have  fared  still  worse  at 
his  hands.'  You  can  imagine  how  greatly  this 
encouraged  me.  I  had  neither  brothers  nor  sis- 
ters; that  is  to  say,  to  tell  tlie  truth,  I  did  have  a 
.sort  of  wretched  little  brother,  who  was  afflicted 
with  the  rickets,  but  he  died  very  soon.  .  .  .  And 
why  should  the  rickets  perch  in  the  Zhigry  dis- 
trict of  the  Kursk  government?  But  that  is  not 
the  point.     My  mother  busied  lierself  over  my 

168 


HAMLET    OF    SIISHTCHIGRY 

education  witli  the  headlong  zeal  of  a  hinded  pro- 
prietress of  tlie  steppes;  she  hnsied  herself  with  it 
from  the  very  magnifieeiit  day  of  my  birth  until 
I  had  attained  the  age  of  sixteen.  .  .  .  Do  you 
follow  the  thi'ead  of  mv  storv?  " 

"  Certainly,  proceed." 

"  Well,  good.  So  then,  when  I  had  attained 
the  age  of  sixteen,  my  mother  without  delay  took 
and  dismissed  my  French  tutor  and  the  German 
Philipovitch  from  the  Greeks  of  Nyezhin :  ^  she 
took  me  to  JMoscow,  entered  me  in  the  university, 
and  surrendered  her  soul  to  the  Almighty,  leaving 
me  in  the  hands  of  my  own  uncle,  the  pettifogger 
Koltun-Babur,  a  bird  who  was  known  to  more 
than  the  Zhigry  district.  This  own  uncle  of 
mine,  the  pettifogger  Koltun-Babur,  robbed  me 
of  my  last  penny,  as  is  the  custom.  .  .  .  But 
again,  that  is  not  the  point.  I  entered  the  univer- 
sity, to  do  my  mother  justice,  tolerably  well  pre- 
pared; but  the  lack  of  originality  was  discerni- 
ble in  me  even  then.  ]\Iy  childhood  had  differed 
in  no  respect  from  the  childhood  of  other  j^ouths : 
I  had  grown  up  as  stupid  and  drowsy  as  though 
I  had  been  under  a  feather-bed,  and  began  just 
as  early  to  commit  verses  to  memory,  and  to  lan- 
guish   under   the    pretext   of   an    inclination    to 

dreaminess and  all  the  rest  of  it.     In 

the  university  I  did  not  travel  along  a  new  road: 
I   immediately   fell   into   a   circle.      Times   were 

^A  Greek  colony   in   Little   Russia. — Translatoh. 

1C9 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

dillVrent  then Rut   perhaps  you  do  not 

know  what  a  cirele  is?— I  remember  that  Schiller 
says  somewhere : 

"  Gefalirlich  ist's,  den  Leu  zu  wcckcn, 
Und  sclireckHcli  is  dcs  Tigers  Zaliii, 
Doch  das  schrecklichste  der  Schrecken — 
Das  ist  der  Mensch  in  seincm  Wahn ! 

"  He  did  not  mean  to  say  that,  I  assure  you;  he 

meant  to  say :  '  Das  is  ein  circle in 

der  Stadt  Moskau! 

"  Rut  what  is  it  that  you  find  dreadful  in  a  cir- 
cle? " — I  inquired. 

My  neighbour  snatclied  up  his  nightcap,  and 
pulled  it  down  on  his  nose. 

''Wliat  is  it  that  I  find  dreadful?  "—he 
sliouted. — "  Why,  this:  a  circle — why,  that  is  the 
penhtion  of  all  independent  development;  a  circle 
is  a  hideous  substitute  for  society,  women,  life ;  a 
circle.  .  .  .  O,  but  wait;  I  will  tell  you  what  a 
circle  is!  A  circle  is  that  sluggish  and  drow^sy 
dwelling  together,  side  by  side,  to  which  the  sig- 
nificance and  aspect  of  a  sensible  deed  is  attached; 
a  circle  substitutes  arguments  for  conversation, 
trains  men  to  fruitless  jabbering,  diverts  you 
from  solitary,  beneficent  work,  infects  you  wath 
the  literary  itch;  it  robs  you,  in  short,  of  your 
freshness  and  virginal  lirmness  of  soul.  A  circle 
— why,   it  is  staleness   and  boredom   under  the 

170 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHIGRY 

name  of  brotherhood  aiul  friendship,  a  coneate- 
nation  of  misunderstanchngs  and  cavilhngs  under 
the  pretext  of  frankness  and  sympathy;  in  a  cir- 
cle— thanks  to  the  right  of  every  friend  to  thrust 
his  unwashed  fingers,  at  all  seasons,  at  all  hours, 
straight  into  the  interior  of  a  comrade — no  one 
has  a  pure,  imtouched  spot  in  his  soid ;  in  a  circle, 
men  bow  down  before  an  empty,  fine  talker,  a 
conceited  clever  fellow,  a  premature  old  man; 
they  bear  aloft  in  their  arms  the  talentless  scrib- 
bler of  verses,  but  with  '  hidden  '  thoughts ;  in  a 
circle,  young  fellows  of  seventeen  discourse  craf- 
tily and  wisely  of  women,  or  talk  with  them  just 
as  in  a  book, — and  what  things  they  talk  about! 
In  a  circle  cunning  eloquence  flourishes;  in  a  cir- 
cle, men  watch  each  other  in  a  way  not  at  all  in- 
ferior to  police  officials.  .  .  .  O  circle!  thou  art 
not  a  circle :  thou  art  an  enchanted  ring,  in  which 
more  than  one  honest  man  has  gone  to  destruc- 
tion!" 

"  Come,  you  are  exaggerating,  allow  me  to  ob- 
serve to  you," — I  interrupted  him. 

My  neighbour  stared  at  me  in  silence. 

"  Perhaps, — the  Lord  knows, — perhaps  I  am. 
But,  you  see,  only  one  pleasure  is  left  to  fellows 
like  me — to  exaggerate.  So,  sir,  in  this  man- 
ner I  spent  four  years  in  Moscow.  I  am  not 
able  to  describe  to  you,  my  dear  sir,  with  what 
rapidity,  with  what  frightful  rapidity,  that  time 
passed ;  it  even  makes  me  sad  and  vexed  to  recall 

171 


\T 


mi;m()IH.s  of  a  stortsman 

it.     "'1'  is  as  tlu)iif»li  you  rose  in  tlie  morning  and 

NMiit   coasting  down   liill  on   a  sled The 

first  Noii  know,  lol  \ou  have  readied  the  end;  and 
already  it  is  evening;  here's  the  sleepy  servant 
pulling  otr  your  eoat, — and  you  change  your 
tlress,  and  wend  your  way  to  your  friend,  and  set 
to  smoking  a  i)i{)e,  and  drinking  glasses  of  weak 
tea,  and  discussing  German  philosophy,  love,  the 
eternal  sun  of  the  spirit,  and  other  remote  objects. 
Hut  there  also  I  met  original,  independent  peo- 
ple-: IK)  matter  how  capricious  one  of  them  might 
he,  no  matter  liow  much  he  hid  himself  in  a 
corner,  still  natiu'c  would  assert  her  rights;  I 
alone,  unhaj)py  wight,  moulded  myself  like  soft 
wax,  and  my  miserable  nature  did  not  display  the 
slightest  resistance!  In  the  meantime,  1  had 
reached  the  age  of  one  and  twenty.  I  entered 
into  possession  oi'  my  inheritance,  or,  to  speak 
more  accurately,  of  that  2)ortion  of  my  inheri- 
tance which  my  guardian  had  graciously  seen  fit 
to  leave  me,  gave  a  power  of  attorney  to  manage 
all  my  hereditary  estates  to  an  emancipated  house- 
serf,  \"asilv  Kudrvasheff,  and  went  abroad  to 
Ikrlin.  I  remained  abroad,  as  I  have  already 
had  the  honour  to  inform  you,  three  years.  And 
what  came  of  that?  There,  abroad,  also,  I  re- 
mained the  same  un-original  being.  In  the  first 
])lace,  there  's  no  disputing  the  fact,  that  I  did  not 
make  ac(|uaintance  with  the  actual  Euro])e,  with 
European  existence,  not  the  least  bit;  1  listened 

172 


HAMI.ET    OF    STTSTTTCITTOKY 

to    the    German    professors,    and    read    (iernian 

books   on   the   very   spot   of   their   birth 

that  is  all  the  differenee  there  was.  I  led  an  iso- 
lated life,  jnst  as  thon(>h  I  had  been  a  monk;  I 
consorted  with  retired  lientenants  who  were  op- 
pressed, like  myself,  with  a  thirst  for  knowledge, 
bnt  were  very  dnll  of  understanding,  and  not  en- 
dowed with  the  gift  of  words;  I  fiXMjuented  the 
society  of  dull-witted  families  from  I'enza  and 
other  grain-producing  governments;  I  lolled 
in  the  cafes,  read  the  newspapers,  went  to  the 
theatre  in  the  evenings.  I  had  little  acquain- 
tance with  the  natives  of  the  country,  I  talked 
with  them  in  a  constrained  sort  of  way,  and  never 
saw  a  single  one  of  them  at  my  own  (juarters, 
with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  intrusive 
young  fellows  of  Jewish  extraction,  who  kept 
incessantl}*  running  to  me  and  borrowing  money 
from  me, — luckily,  dcr  Ilusse  was  confiding.  A 
strange  freak  of  chance  at  last  took  me  into  the 
house  of  one  of  my  })rofessors;  and  this  was  the 
way  it  came  about :  I  went  to  him  to  enter  myself 
in  his  course,  and  the  first  I  knew  he  suddenly  in- 
vited me  to  spend  the  evening  with  him.  Tliis 
professor  had  two  daughters,  twenty-seven  years 
of  age,  such  buxom  girls — God  ])less  them! — such 
magnificent  noses,  curls  in  papers,  ]:)ale-blue  eyes, 
and  red  hands  with  ])allid  nnils.  One  was  named 
I.inchen,  the  other  Minchen.  I  began  to  frequent 
the  professor's  house.     I  must  tell  you  that  that 

173 


MKMOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

professor  was  not  exactly  stupid,  but  cracked  as  it 
wtre;  he  talked  (juite  coherently  on  the  lecture- 
platform,  hut  at  home  he  lisped,  and  kept  his 
si)ectacles  always  on  his  forehead;  moreover,  he 
was  an  extremely  learned  man.  .  .  .  And  what 
came  of  it!"  ^Vll  of  a  sudden,  I  took  it  into  my 
head  that  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  Linchen, — and 
for  six  whole  months  I  thought  so.  I  talked  very 
littk-  to  her.  it  is  true, — I  chiefly  stared  at  her; 
l)ut  I  read  aloud  to  her  divers  affecting  compo- 
sitions, pressed  her  hand  on  the  sly,  and  of  an 
evening  meditated  by  her  side,  gazing  intently  at 
the  moon,  or  simply  into  the  air.  INIoreover,  she 
did  make  such  capital  coffee!  .  .  .  .'  What  more 
do  I  want? '  I  thought  to  myself.  One  thing 
troubled  me:  at  the  very  moments  of  inexpressi- 
ble bliss,  as  the  saying  is,  I  always  had  a  pain  in 
the  lower  part  of  my  chest,  for  som^  reason  or 
other,  and  an  acute,  cold  chill  coursed  through 
my  stomach.  At  last,  I  could  endure  such  happi- 
ness no  longer,  and  I  fled.  I  spent  two  whole 
years  abroad  after  that:  I  was  in  Italy,  in  Rome 
I  .stood  in  front  of  the  '  Transfiguration,'  in  Flor- , 
ence  in  front  of  the  '  Venus ' ;  all  at  once,  I  went 
into  exaggerated  raptures,  as  though  seized  w^ith 
a  fit  of  ferocity;  in  the  evenings  I  scribbled  verses, 
and  started  a  diary;  in  a  word,  I  conducted  my- 
self there  as  everybody  does.  And  yet,  just  see 
how  easv  it  is  to  be  orioinal.  I  understand  no- 
thing  about  j)ainting  and  sculpture,  for  example. 

174 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHlGRY 

...  I  might  simply  have  said  that  aloud  .  .  .  ,  . 
no,  impossible.  I  engage  a  cicerone,  and  run  and 
look  at  the  frescoes.  .  .  ." 

Again  he  dropped  his  eyes,  and  again  flung  off 
his  nightcap. 

"  So,  at  last,  I  returned  to  my  native  land," — 
he  went  on,  in  a  weary  tone: — "  I  arrived  in  INIos- 
cow.  In  Moscow  I  underwent  an  amazing 
change.  Abroad  I  had  chiefly  held  my  tongue, 
but  here,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  began  to  talk  with 
unexpected  boldness,  and  at  the  same  time,  con- 
ceived God  knows  what  lofty  opinion  of  my- 
self. Indulgent  people  turned  up,  to  whom  I  ap- 
peared something  very  like  a  genius;  but  I  was 
not  able  to  maintain  myself  at  the  height  of  my 
glory.  One  fine  morning  a  calumny  sprang  into 
existence  with  regard  to  me  (who  brought  it  fortli 
into  the  light  of  God,  I  know  not:  some  old  maid 
of  the  male  sex,  it  must  have  been, — there  's  a  lot 
of  such  old  maids  in  jNIoscow), — sprang  into  ex- 
istence, and  began  to  put  forth  shoots  and  run- 
ners, just  as  though  it  had  been  a  strawberry- 
plant.  I  got  confused,  tried  to  jump  out  of  it, 
to  break  asunder  the  adhesive  threads, — but   it 

could  n't  be  done I  went  away.     In  that 

case  also,  I  proved  myself  an  absurd  man;  I 
ought  to  have  quite  quietly  awaited  the  attack, 
waited  for  this  misfortune  to  run  its  course,  just 
as  one  awaits  the  end  of  nettlerash,  and  those 
same  indulgent  persons  would  again  have  opened 

175 


AfEMOTRS   OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

tljc'ir  arms  to  im-,  tliose  same  ladies  would  again 

liavc  smiled  at  my  speeches But  there  's 

the  pity  oi'  it :  1  "m  not  an  original  man.  Consci- 
entiousness, yon  will  he  pleased  to  ohserve,  sud- 
denly awoke  in  me:  for  some  reason,  I  became 
ashamed  to  chatter,  chatter  without  ceasing,  to 
chatter — N'esterdav  on  the  Arbat,  to-day  on  the 
Truhil,  to-morrow  at  the  Sivtzevoy-Vrazhek/ 
And  forever  ahont  tlie  selfsame  thing,  .  .  .  And 
was  it  wanted  ?  Just  look  at  the  genuine  warriors 
ill  that  career:  that  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence 
to  them:  on  the  contrary,  that  is  all  they  require; 
some  of  them  will  toil  twenty  years  with  their 
tonii'ues,  and  alwavs  in  the  same  direction.  .  .  . 
Th.at  "s  what  confidence  in  one's  self  and  self- 
conceit  will  do  for  a  man!  And  I  had  it,  too, — 
self-conceit, — and  it  has  not  entirely  quieted 
down  even  yet.  .  .  .  But  the  fatal  point,  I  will 
i"ei)eat  it  once  more,  is,  tliat  1  am  not  an  original 
man,  I  stopped  short  in  mid-career:  nature  should 
Iiave  allotted  to  me  a  great  deal  more  conceit,  or 
not  given  me  any  at  all.  But,  at  first,  I  really 
did  have  a  pretty  hard  time:  in  addition  to 
tins,  my  trip  abroad  liad  completelj^  exhausted 
my  resources,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  marrj^  a  mer- 
chant's widow,  witli  a  youthful  but  already  flabby 
l)ody,  in  the  nature  of  jelly,  and  so  I  withdrew 
to  my  estate  in  the  country.     I  think," — added 

'  Squares  and   streets    in    Moscow. — Translator. 

176 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHTORV 

my  neighbour,  casting  another  sidelong  ghmco 
at  me, — "  that  I  may  pal^s  over  in  silence  my  first 
impressions  of  country  life,  allusions  to  the 
beauty  of  nature,  the  tranquil  charm  of  solitude, 
and  so  forth.  ..." 

"  Vou  may,  you  may," — I  replied. 

"  The  more  so," — pursued  the  narrator, — 
"  as  all  that  is  nonsense, — at  least,  so  it  seems  to 
me.  I  got  as  bored  in  the  country  as  a  locked-up 
puppy,  although  I  admit  that,  as  I  passed,  for 
the  first  time,  in  springtime,  on  my  homeward 
journey,  through  the  familiar  birch -grove,  my 
head  began  to  swim  and  my  heart  to  beat  with 
confused,  sweet  anticipation.  But  these  sweet 
anticipations,  as  you  yourself  know,  never  are  re- 
alised, but,  on  the  contrary,  other  things  come  to 
pass,  which  you  are  not  in  the  least  expecting, 
such  as:  murrain,  tax-arrears,  sales  at  public  auc- 
tion, and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  I  made  shift  to 
live  from  day  to  day,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
peasant  overseer  Yakoff,  who  had  superseded 
the  former  manager,  and  proved,  later  on,  to  be 
as  great  a  thief  as  he,  if  not  even  greater  than  he, 
and  who  poisoned  my  existence,  into  the  bargain, 
with  the  odour  of  his  tarred  boots.  ...  I  one  day 
called  to  mind  a  neighbouring  family,  with  whom 
I  was  acquainted,  consisting  of  the  widow  of  a  re- 
tired Colonel  and  her  two  daughters,  ordered  my 
drozhky  harnessed,  and  drove  off  to  my  neigh- 

177 


MEArOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

lK)iirs.  That  day  must  forever  remain  memorable 
to  me;  six  montlis  later,  I  married  the  Coloneless' 
second  daughter.   .   .   .  ' 

The  narrator  hung  his  head,  and  raised  his  arms 
to  heaven. 

"  A\u\  yet," — he  went  on  with  fervour:—"  I 
do  not  w  ish  to  inspire  you  with  a  bad  opinion  of 
my  deceased  wife.  Ciod  forbid!  She  was  the  no- 
blest, kindest  creature,  a  loving  creature,  and  ca- 
j)al)le  of  every  sacrifice,  although  I  must  confess, 
bttwtcii  ourselves,  if  I  had  not  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  lose  her,  I  probably  should  not  have  been 
in  a  position  to  chat  with  you  to-day,  for  there 
still  exists,  in  the  cellar. Df  my  cherry-shed,^  a 
beam  on  ^\•llich  I  repeatedly  made  preparations 
to  liang  mvself ! 

"  Some  pears," — he  began  again,  after  a  brief 
pause, — "must  be  allowed  to  lie  for  a  certain 
time  in  the  cellar,  jn  order,  as  the  saying  is,  to 
ae(juire  their  real  savour;  my  deceased  wife,  evi- 
dently, also  belonged  to  that  sort  of  products 
of  nature.  Oidy  now  do  I  do  her  full  justice. 
Only  now,  for  example,  do  the  memories  of  cer- 
tain evenings,  which  1  spent  with  her  before  the 
wedding,  fad  to  arouse  in  me  the  slightest  bit- 
terness, but,  on  the  contrary,  affect  me  almost  to 
tears.  They  were  not  wealthy  people;  their 
Iiouse,  very  old,  of  wood,  but  comfortable,  stood 

'  In   districts   where   the   winter   is   too   severe    for   unprotected 
cherry-trees,  they  are  phinted  in  a  rouglily-roofed,  deep  trench.^ 

TUANSI.ATOU. 

178 


HAMLET    OF    SHSHTCHIGRY 

on  a  hill  between  a  neglected  park  and  an  over- 
grown yard.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  Howed  a 
river,  which  was  barely  visible  through  the  dense 
foliage.  A  large  veranda  led  from  the  house  to 
the  garden;  in  front  of  the  veranda  flaunted  a 
long  flower-bed,  covered  with  roses;  at  each  end 
of  the  bed  grew  two  acacias,  which  in  their  youth 
had  been  interwoven  in  the  form  of  a  spiral  by 
the  deceased  owner.  A  little  further  off,  in  the 
very  thickest  part  of  the  neglected  raspberry-plot, 
which  had  run  wild,  stood  an  arbour,  very  art- 
fully painted  inside,  but  so  aged  and  decrepit 
outside,  that  it  made  one  uncomfortable  to  look  at 
it.  A  glazed  door  led  from  the  veranda  into  the 
drawing-room;  and  in  the  drawing-room  this  is 
what  presented  itself  to  the  curious  gaze  of  the 
observer :  in  the  corners,  tiled  stoves ;  a  discordant 
piano  on  the  right,  loaded  down  with  manuscri])t 
music;  a  divan,  upholstered  in  faded  sky-blue 
material  with  whitish  patterns;  a  circular  table; 
two  etageres,  with  trifles  of  porcelain  and  glass 
beads  dating  from  the  time  of  Katherine  II ;  on 
the  wall,  the  familiar  portrait  of  a  fair-haired 
young  girl  with  a  dove  on  her  bosom  and  her  eyes 
rolled  heavenward ;  on  the  table,  a  vase  filled  w  ith 
fresh  roses You  see  how  minutely  I  de- 
scribe. In  that  drawing-room  and  on  that  terrace 
the  entire  tragicomedy  of  miy  love  was  enacted. 
]My  neighbour's  wife  herself  Avas  a  spiteful  wo- 
man, with  a  permanent  hoarseness  of  malice  in 

179 


ME.MOIKS   Ol     A   srORTSiMAN 

Irt  throat, — a  Ma^i.iiin-  aiul  (juarrelsome  person; 
one  of  her  (hm^^Iiters.  Vcni,  was  in  no  waj'  differ- 
ent from  ordinary  young  eountry  gentlewomen; 
the  other  was   S(')fya, — and   I   fell  in   love   with 
S(')f\a.     TIk-  two  sisters  had  still  another  room, 
tlitir  eoiiiniou  hedroom,  with  two  innoeent  little 
wooden  hcds,  yellowish  alhums,  mignonette,  and 
portraits  of  their  friends,  male  and  female,  drawn 
in  |)tiK-il,  and  pretty  hadly  done;  among  them  one 
was  especially  noteworthy, — that  of  a  gentleman 
with  a  remarkahly  energetic  expression  of  coun- 
tenance and  a  still  more  energetic  signature,  who 
in  his  yf)uth  had  aroused  incommensurable  expec- 
tations, and  had  ended,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  in — 
nothing;  with  busts  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  with 
German  books,  withered  wreaths,  and  other  ob- 
jects whicli  had  been  preserved  in  commemora- 
tion.    JJut  1  entered  this  room  rarely  and  unwil- 
lingly: foi-  some  reason  or  other,  my  breathing 
was  ')pj)ressed  there.    ]Moreover — strange  to  say! 
— I  liked  Sofya  best  of  all  when  I  was  sitting  with 
niy  back  to  her,  or  still  more,  probably,  when  I 
was  thinking  or  meditating  about  her,  especially 
in  the  evening,  on  the  veranda.     Then  I  gazed  at 
tlie  sunset  glow,  at  the  trees,  at  the  tiny  green 
leaves,  which  had  already  grown  dark  but  were 
still  distinctly  discernible  against  the  rosy  sky; 
in  the  drawing-room,  at  the  piano,  sat  Sofya,  un- 
interru])te(lly   ])laying  some   favourite,    passion- 
ately i)ensive  passage  from  Beethoven ;  the  spite- 

180 


HAMLET    OF    STTSTTTCTTKiRY 

fill  old  woman  snored  reynlarlv,  as  she  sat  on  tlic 
divan;  in  the  dining-room,  illuminated  by  a  flood 
of  crimson  light.  Vera  busied  herself  "with  the 
tea;  the  samovar  hissed  sportively,  as  though  re- 
joicing over  something;  the  cracknels  broke  with 
a  merry  snap,  the  teas])oons  rattled  resonantly 
against  the  cups;  tlie  canary-bird,  which  had  been 
trilling  ruthlessly  all  day  long,  had  suddenly 
quieted  down,  and  only  now  and  then  gave  vent 
to  a  chirp,  as  though  making  an  inquiry  about 
something;  sparse  rain-drops  fell  from  a  light, 
transparent  little  cloud  as  it  swept  past.  .  .  . 
And  I  sat  and  sat,  and  listened  and  listened,  and 
my  heart  swelled,  and  again  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  in  love.  So,  under  the  influence  of  an  even- 
ing of  tliis  sort,  I  one  day  asked  the  old  woman 
for  her  daughter's  hand,  and  two  months  later 
I  was  married.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  loved  her. 
.  .  .  And  even  now,  though  it  is  time  for  me  to 
know,  yet,  by  heaven,  I  don't  know  even  now 
whether  I  loved  Sofya.  She  was  a  good-natured, 
clever,  taciturn  creature,  ^^'ith  a  warm  heart;  but, 
God  knows  why,  whether  from  having  lived  so 
long  in  the  country,  (3r  from  some  other  causes,  at 
the  bottom  of  her  soul  ( if  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
a  bottom  to  the  soul)  she  had  a  hidden  wound,  or, 
to  express  it  better,  she  had  a  running  sore,  which 
nothing  could  heal,  and  neither  she  nor  I  was  able 
to  put  a  name  to  it.  The  existence  of  this  wound 
I  divined,  of  course,  only  long  after  the  wedding. 

181    . 


MKMOIHS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

And  what  efforts  1  nuule  over  her — all  was  to  no 
avail!  In  my  eliildhood  I  had  a  fineh  wliich  the 
cat  oiur  held  in  lier  paws  for  a  while:  the  finch 
was  resfued  and  nursed,  hut  it  never  recovered; 
it  sulked,  pined  away,  and  ceased  to  sing.  .  .  .  The 
end  of  it  was.  that  one  night  a  mouse  got  into  its 
open  cage,  and  gnawed  off  its  bill,  in  consequence 
(if  uhleh.  at  last,  it  made  up  its  mind  to  die.  I 
know  not  what  cat  had  held  my  wife  in  its  claws, 
hut  she  sulked  and  j)ine(l  in  exactly  the  same  way 
as  my  unhaj)i)y  finch.  Sometimes  it  was  evident 
that  she  herself  wanted  to  shake  her  wings,  to  re- 
joice in  the  fresh  air,  in  the  sunshine,  and  at  lib- 
erty: she  would  make  the  effort — and  curl  up  in 
a  l)all!  .Vnd  yet  she  loved  me:  how  many  times 
did  slie  assure  me  that  she  had  nothing  more  to 
wish  for, — whew,  damii  it! — and  her  eyes  would 
darken  the  while.  I  thought  to  myself:  '  Isn't 
tliere  something  in  her  past?'  I  made  incjuiries: 
I  found  that  there  had  been  nothing.  Well,  so 
now  then,  judge  for  yovn-self :  an  original  man 
would  have  shrugged  his  shoulders,  heaved  a 
couple  of  sighs,  and  taken  to  living  in  his  own 
way:  l)ut  I  'm  not  an  original  being,  I  began  to 
stai-e  at  tlie  rafters.  My  wife  had  become  so  thor- 
oughly corroded  with  all  the  habits  of  an  old 
maid, — Beethoven,  nocturnal  rambles,  mignon- 
ette, corres])on(lence  with  her  friends,  albums, 
and  so  forth, — that  it  was  utterly  im])ossible  for 
ill  r  to  get  used  to  any  other  mode  of  life,  espe- 

•     182 


HAMLET    OF    SIISHTCIIIGRY 

cially  to  the  life  of  the  mistress  of  the  house;  and 
yet,  it  is  ridieulous  for  a  married  woman  to  lan- 
guish with  a  nameless  woe,  and  sing  in  the  even- 
ing :   '  Wake  thou  her  not  at  dawn ! ' 

"  So,  sir,  after  this  fashion  we  enjoyed  felicity 
for  three  years;  in  the  fourth  year  Sofya  died  in 
childhed  with  her  first  child, — and,  strange  to 
say,  I  seemed  to  have  had  a  presentiment  that  she 
would  not  be  capable  of  giving  me  a  daughter  or 
a  son,  a  new  inhabitant  for  the  earth.  I  remember 
her  funeral.  It  was  in  the  spring.  Our  parish 
church  is  small  and  old,  the  ikonostasis  has  turned 
black,  the  walls  are  bare,  the  brick  floor  is  broken 
in  places;  on  each  side  of  the  choir  is  a  large,  an- 
cient holy  picture.  The  coflin  was  brought  in, 
and  placed  in  the  very  centre,  in  front  of  the  Im- 
perial Door,^  draped  in  a  faded  pall,  and  three 
candlesticks  were  set  around  it.  The  service  be- 
gan. The  decrepit  lay-reader,  with  his  little  pig- 
tail behind,  girt  low  on  the  hips  with  a  green 
girdle,  mumbled  mournfully  in  front  of  the  fold- 
ing reading-desk;  the  priest,  also  aged,  with  a 
kindly  and  sightless  face,  in  a  lilac  cope  with 
yellow  patterns,  did  his  own  j)art  of  the  service 
and  the  deacon's  also.  The  fresh  young  foliage 
of  the  weeping  birches  fluttered  and  whispered 
to  the  full  extent  of  the  open  windows;  the  fra- 
grance of  the  grass  was  wafted  in  from  out  of 

^  The  double  central  door  in  tiie  ikonostasis  (image-screen), 
which  corresponds  to  tlie  chancel-rail  in  the  Western  Church. — 
Translator. 

183 


MK.MOIKS   Ol'   A   SPORTSMAN 

cl(M)rs:  thf  ivd  lianif  of  the  wax  candles  paled 
ill  the  elieeiriil  li^lit  of  the  spring  day;  the  spar- 
rows fairly  filled  the  ehureh  with  their  twittering; 
and  now  and  then, up  under  the  cupola,  resounded 
the  ringing  eiv  of  a  swallow  which  had  flown  in. 
The  reddish-hrown  heads  of  a  few  peasants, 
who  ^^ere  /ealously  praying  for  the  dead  woman, 
rose  and  fell  in  the  golden  dust  of  the  sun's  rays; 
the  smoke  escaped  from  the  orifice  of  the  censer 
in  a  slender,  hluish  stream.  I  looked  at  the  dead 
face  of  mv  wife.  .  .  .  Mv  God!  even  death, 
death  itself,  had  not  released  her,  had  not  healed 
her  wound:  there  was  the  same  painful,  timid, 
dumh  expression, — as  thougli  she  were  not  at  her 
ease  even  in  the  grave.  .  .  .  JNIy  blood  surged 
bitterly  within  me.  She  was  a  good,  good  crea- 
ture, but  she  did  a  good  thing  for  herself  wiien  she 
died!" 

The  narrator's  cheeks  reddened  and  his  eyes 
grew  dim. 

"  Having,  at  last,  got  rid  of  the  heavy  depres- 
sion which  took  possession  of  me  after  the  death 
of  my  wife," — he  began  again, — "  I  conceived  the 
notion  of  taking  to  business,  as  the  saying  is.  I 
entered  government  service  in"  the  capital  of  the 
(.o\ernment,'  but  the  huge  rooms  of  the  govern- 
mental establishment  made  my  head  ache,  and 
my  eyes  worked  badly;  and  other  causes  pre- 
sented themselves  also,  by  the  way I  re- 

'  Corrpspoiulinp  to  a  State  In  the  United  States.— Thaxslator. 

184 


HAMLET    OF    S11SIITCII1(;RV 

tired.  1  wanted  to  go  to  Moscow,  but,  in  the 
first  place,  I  lacked  the  money;  and,  in  the  second 
2)lace  ....  I  have  already  told  3'ou  that  I  have 
become  resigned.  This  resignation  came  upon 
me  botii  suddenly  and  not  suddenly.  In  spirit  I 
had  long  since  become  resigned,  but  my  head  still 
refused  to  bend.  I  ascribed  the  modest  frame  of 
my  feelings  and  tliouglits  to  the  inlhience  of 
country  life,  of  unhappiness.  .  .  .  On  the  other 
hand,  1  had  already  long  before  noticed  that  al- 
most all  my  neighbours,  old  and  young,  Avho  had 
been  frightened  at  first  by  my  learning,  by  my 
trip  abroad,  and  by  the  other  opportunities  of  my 
education,  had  not  only  succeeded  in  becoming 
thoroughly  accustomed  to  me,  but  had  even  be- 
gun to  treat  me,  if  not  rudely,  at  least  with  sneer- 
ing condescension,  did  not  listen  to  me  to  the  end 
when  I  was  arguing,  and  in  speaking  with  me  no 
longer  used  the  '  sir.'  ^  I  have  also  forgotten  to 
tell  you  that  during  the  course  of  the  first  year 
after  my  marriage  1  had  tried  my  hand  at  litera- 
ture, out  of  tedium,  and  had  even  sent  an  article 
to  a  newspaper, — a  story,  if  I  mistake  not;  but 
some  time  afterward  I  received  a  polite  letter 
from  the  editor,  in  which,  among  other  things, 
he  said  that  while  it  could  not  be  denied  that  I  had 
brains,  it  could  be  denied  that  I  had  talent,  and  in 
literature  talent  was  necessary.     In  addition  to 

^The  addition  of  the  letter  s  to  words,  here  indicated,  is  not 
precisely  "sir"  or  "madam,"  hut  a  courteous,  lesser  equivalent, 
Mliich  must  he  rendered  thus. — Tkanslator. 

185 


MKMOIKS   OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

this,  it  came  to  my  knowledge  that  a  man  from 
Moscow,  wlio  chanced  to  he  passing  tln'oiigh, — an 
extremely  amiahle  young  fellow,  hy  the  way, — 
had  rel'erred  to  me  in  i)assing  as  an  extinct  and 
tinpty  mail,  at  an  evening  party  at  the  Gov- 
ernor's. Hut  my  semi-voluntary  hlindness  still 
continued:  1  did  n't  want  to  '  hox  my  own  ears,' 
you  know  :  at  last,  one  fine  morning,  I  opened  my 
eves.  This  is  the  wav  it  came  ahout.  The  chief 
of  ruial  police  dropped  in  to  see  me,  with  the  ])ur- 
])ose  of  calling  my  attention  to  a  ruined  hridge 
on  my  domains,  which  1  positively  had  not  the 
means  of  mending.  As  he  washed  down  a  bit  of 
dried  sturgeon  with  a  glass  of  vodka,  this  patro- 
nising guardian  of  order  reproved  me  in  a  pater- 
nal ^^ay  for  my  thoughtlessness,  but  entered  into 
my  situation,  and  merely  recommended  me  to 
order  my  peasants  to  throw  on  a  little  manure, 
lighted  his  ])ipe,  and  began  to  talk  about  the  ap- 
proaching elections.  A  certain  OrbassanofF,  an 
emi)ty  swashbuckler,  and  a  bribe-taker  to  boot, 
was  at  that  time  a  candidate  for  the  honourable 
post  of  ^Marshal  of  the  Nobility  for  the  Govern- 
ment. Moreover,  he  was  not  noteworthy  either 
for  his  wealth  or  for  his  distinction.  I  expressed 
my  opinion  concerning  him,  and  rather  carelessly 
at  that:  1  must  confess  that  I  looked  down  upon 
Mr.  OrbassiinofT.  The  chief  of  police  looked  at 
me, tapped  me  affectionately  on  the  shoulder,  and 
said  good-naturedly: — '  Ekh,  Vasily  Vasilievitch, 

186 


HAMLET    OF    SITSITTCTIIC;RY 

't  is  not  for  you  and  me  to  judge  of  such  persons; 
— how  can  we?  ....  Let  every  one  keep  his 
proper  place.' ^ — 'Why,  good  gracious!' — I  re- 
torted with  vexation,  '  what  difference  is  there 
between  me  and  ]Mr.  OrbassanoflP? ' — The  chief 
took  liis  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  opened  liis 
eyes  very  w^de,  and  fairly  burst  witli  laugliter. 
— '  Come,  you  funny  man,' — he  said  at  last, 
through  his  tears:  '  \\'liat  a  joke  you  have  got  off 

ah!  wasn't  that  a  good  one! ' — and  he 

never  stopped  making  fun  of  me  until  he  de- 
parted, now  and  then  nudging  me  in  the  ribs  with 
his  elbow  and  even  addressing  me  as  '  thou.'  He 
went  away  at  last.  That  was  the  last  drop:  the 
cup  overflowed.  I  paced  up  and  down  the  room 
a  few  times,  halted  in  front  of  the  mirror,  stared 
for  a  long,  long  time  at  my  disconcerted  counte- 
nance, and,  slowly  sticking  out  my  tongue,  shook 
my  head  with  a  Ijitter  smile.  The  veil  fell  from 
my  eyes;  I  saw  clearh%  more  clearly  than  I  saw 
my  face  in  the  mirror,  what  an  empty,  insignifi- 
cant, and  useless,  unoriginal  man  I  was!  " 

The  narrator  made  a  brief  pause. 

"  In  one  of  Voltaire's  tragedies," — he  went  on 
dejectedly,—"  a  certain  gentleman  is  delighted 
that  he  has  reached  the  extreme  limits  of  ill  luck. 
Although  there  is  nothing  tragic  in  my  fate,  yet 
I  must  confess  that  I  have  tasted  something  of 

'In  Russian,  literally:  "Let  the  cricket  know  his 
hearth." — Traxslatoh. 

187 


MKMOIRS  OF   A    SPOKTSMAX 

tliat  mm(.  1  have  learned  to  know  the  venomous 
raptures  of  eold  despair;  1  iiave  learned  by  expe- 
rienee  liow  sweet  it  is  to  lie,  without  haste,  in  bed 
for  an  entire  niornino-  and  curse  the  day  and  bour 
of  iiiv  hirtii; — I  eould  not  resign  myself  all  at 
once.  And.  in  fact,  judge  for  yourself:  my  lack 
of  money  lettered  me  to  my  detested  country- 
place;  I  was  tit  for  nothing, — neither  agriculture, 
nor  the  service,  nor  literature;  I  avoided  tlie 
hmded  proprietors,  books  revolted  me;  for  the 
dropsical  and  sickiy-scntimental  young  ladies, 
who  shook  their  curls  and  feverisbly  reiterated 
the  word  '  life,'  I  bad  ceased  to  be  in  the  least  at- 
tractive as  soon  as  I  ceased  to  chatter  and  go  into 
ecstasies:  I  did  not  know  bow  to  isolate  myself 
completely,  neither  could  I  do  so.  ...  I  began 
to — what  do  you  think? — I  began  to  haunt  my 
neighi)ours.  As  though  intoxicated  witli  scorn 
for  myself.  1  purposely  subjected  myself  to  all 
sorts  of  petty  liumiliations.  They  passed  me 
over  at  the  ta})le,  they  greeted  me  coldly  and 
liaughtily;  at  last,  they  took  no  notice  wbatever 
of  me;  they  did  not  even  allow  me  to  mingle  in 
tlie  general  conversation,  and  I  myself  used  de- 
liberately to  back  up  from  a  corner  some  ex- 
tremely stupid  babbler,  who  at  one  time,  in  Mos- 
cow,  would  have  kissed  mv  feet,  the  hem  of  mv 
cloak,  in  rapture.  ,  .  I  did  not  even  permit  my- 
self to  think  that  I  was  surrendering  myself  to 
the    bitter    satisfaction    of    irony.    .    .    .    Good 

188 


lIAMi>KT    OF    SIISiriCllKiKV 

heavens,  what  is  irony  in  sohtude!  This,  sir,  is  the 
way  1  hehaved  for  several  years  in  succession, 
and  the  way  I  am  behaving  up  to  the  present 
time,  .  .  ." 

"  Why,  this  is  outrageous,"  growled  the  sleepy 
voice  of  ISlv.  Kantagrii'ikhin,  from  the  adjoining 
room: — "  What  fool  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
prate  by  night?  " 

The  narrator  briskly  dived  down  under  his 
coverlet  and,  timjdly  peering  out,  shook  his  finger 
at  me. 

"  Sh sssssh!" — he  whispered;  and,  as 

though  apologising  and  bowing  in  the  direction 
of  JNIr.  Kantagriiikhin's  voice,  he  said  respect- 
fully:— ■"  I  obey,  sir;  I  obey,  sir;  excuse  me,  sir. 
....  It  is  permissible  for  him  to  sleep,  he  has  a 
right  to  sleep," — he  went  on  again  in  a  whisper: 
"  he  must  gather  fresh  strength,  well,  if  only  in 
order  that  he  may  eat  with  his  usual  satisfaction 
to-morrow.  We  have  no  right  to  disturb  him. 
Moreover,  I  think  I  have  told  you  all  I  wished; 
probably,  you  would  like  to  go  to  sleep  also.  I 
wish  you  a  good  night." 

The  narrator  turned  over  with  feverish  haste, 
and  bvu'ied  his  head  in  his  pillows. 

"  Permit  me  at  least  to  incpiire," — I  asked : — 
"  W'ith  whom  liave  I  the  honour  .  .  .  ." 

He  raised  his  head  alertly. 

"  No,  for  God's  sake," — he  interrupted  me: — 
"  don't  ask  my  name  of  me  or  of  others.    Let  me 


ME.AIUIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

remain  for  you  an  unknown  being,  Vasily  Vasilie- 
viteh,  l)rnisetl  by  fate,  ^loreover,  as  an  unorigi- 
nal man.  I  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  name  of  my 
own.  .  .  .  l^ut  if  you  absolutely  insist  upon  giv- 
ing me  some  api)ellation.  then  call  me  ....  call 
me  the  Ilandet  of  Shshtehigry  County.  There 
are  lots  of  such  Hamlets  in  every  county,  but  per- 
haps von  have  not  encountered  any  others.  .  .  . 
Herewith,  farewell." 

Again  he  ])uried  liimself  in  his  feather-bed, 
and  on  the  following  morning,  when  they  came  to 
wake  me,  he  was  no  longer  in  the  room.  He  had 
departed  at  daybreak. 


190 


VIII 

TCHERTOPKHANOFF  AND  NEDOPIUSKIN 

One  hot  summer  day  I  was  returning  from  the 
hunt  in  a  peasant  cart;  Ermolai  was  dozing  as  he 
sat  beside  me,  and  bobbing  his  head  forward. 
The  skimbering  hounds  were  jolting  about  hke 
dead  bodies  under  our  feet.  Tlie  coachman  kept 
incessantly  flicking  the  gadflies  ofl*  the  horses 
with  his  whip.  The  white  dust  floated  in  a  light 
cloud  after  the  cart.  We  drove  into  the  bushes. 
The  road  became  more  full  of  pits,  the  wheels  be- 
gan to  come  in  contact  with  the  branches.  Kr- 
molai  gave  a  start,  and  glanced  around  him.  .  .  . 
"Eh!"^ — said  he: — "why,  there  ought  to  be 
black-cock  here.  Let 's  alight." — We  halted  and 
entered  the  tract  of  second  gro^\i:li  and  bushes- 
]My  dog  hit  upon  a  covey  of  birds.  I  fired,  and 
was  beginning  to  reload  my  gun  when,  suddenly, 
behind  me,  a  loud  crash  made  itself  heard,  and, 
j^arting  the  bushes  with  his  hands,  a  man  on  horse- 
back rode  up  to  me. — "  Per-mit  me  to  inquire," 
— he  said,  in  an  arrogant  voice,  "  by  what  right 
you  are  shooting  here,  m'  d'r  s'r."  ' 

The  stranger  spoke  with  unusual  rapidity,  ab- 

^  His   pronunciation    is    indicated    as   affected. — Translator. 

191 


MK.MOTKS   or   .\    SPOKTSMAN 

niptly,  .111(1  tliidu^h  liis  nose,     i  looked  liiiii  in  the 

latr:  ncvci-  in  my  lifV  had  I  beheld  anything  hke 

him.      Fiiiure  to  yourself,  dear  readers,  a  tiny, 

lair-iiaired  man  u  itli  a  little  red  snub-nose  and  a 

loriLT  red  moustaehe.     An  octagonal  Persian  cap 

with  a  crimson  cloth  top  covered  his  forehead  to 

his  \(r\-  l)ro\\s.     Tic  was  chul  in  a  long,  thread- 

i)are.  yellow   Caucasian  coat  with  black  velveteen 

cartri('ge-sheaths  on  the  breast  and  faded  silver 

galloon  on  all  the  seams;  across  his  shoulder  hung 

his  hunting-horn,  a  dagger  projected  from  his 

belt.      His  emaciated,  roman-nosed,  sorrel  horse 

staggered  beneath  him,  like  a  drunken  creature; 

two  greyhounds,  gaunt  and  wry-footed,  pranced 

about  between  its  legs.    The  face,  the  glance,  the 

\()ice,  every  movement,  the  whole  person  of  the 

stranger  exhaled  mad  hardihood  and  boundless, 

unprecedented  pride;  his  pale-blue,  glassy  eyes 

were  shifty  and  squinting,  like  those  of  a  tipsy 

man;   lie   flung   his   head   })ack,    puffed    out   his 

cheeks,  snorted  and  quivered  all  over,  as  though 

wlih  excess  of  pride — for  all  the   world  like  a 

tuikey-cock.     He  repeated  his  question. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  sluxjting  here  was  for- 
bidden,"— I  replied. 

"  You  are  on  my  land  here,  my  dear  sir," — he 
went  on. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go." 

"  Jiut  per-mit  me  to  inquire," — he  returned: 

192 


TCHERTOPKHANOFF 

"  have  I  the  honour  to  explain  niyseli*  with  a 
noble? '' 

I  mejitioned  my  name. 

"  In  that  case,  pray  go  on  shooting.  1  am  a 
noble  mj^self,  and  am  very  glad  to  be  of  service  to 

a  noble JNIy  name  is  Tchertop-khanofF, 

Pantelei." 

He  bent  forward,  gave  a  whoop,  lashed  his 
horse  on  the  neck  witli  his  whip,  shook  his  head, 
dashed  aside,  and  cruslied  the  paw  of  one  of  his 
dogs.  The  dog  began  to  wliimper  shrilly.  Tcher- 
topkhanoff  began  to  seethe  and  hiss,  smote  his 
liorse  on  the  head  between  the  ears,  s})rang  to  the 
earth  quicker  than  a  flash  of  lightning,  scru- 
tinised the  dog's  paw,  spat  on  the  wound,  kicked 
the  animal  in  the  side  with  his  foot  to  stop  its  out- 
cries, grasj^ed  the  horse's  forelock,  and  tln-ust  his 
foot  into  the  stirrup.  The  horse  tossed  its  muzzle, 
elevated  its  tail,  and  darted  sideways  into  the 
bushes;  he  went  hopping  after  it  on  one  leg,  but 
vaulted  into  the  saddle  at  last;  he  flourished  his 
kazak  whip  like  a  man  in  a  frenzy,  blew  a  blaring 
blast  on  his  horn,  and  galloped  off".  Before  I 
could  recover  myself  from  this  unexpected  ap- 
parition of  Tchertopkhanoff',  suddenly,  almost 
without  a  sound,  a  rather  corpulent  man  of  forty 
rode  out  of  the  bushes  on  a  small,  black  nag.  He 
drew  up,  removed  from  his  head  a  green  leather 
cap  of  military  shape,  and  in  a  shrill,  soft  voice 

193 


MK.MOIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

asked  mc  uhctlicr  I  liad  seen  a  rider  on  a  sorrel 
horse.     I  leplied  that  1  luul. 

"  In  what  (lireetion  (Hd  they'  deign  to  ride?" 
— lie  Weill  on.  in  tlie  same  tone,  and  without  put- 
ting on  his  eap. 

"  In  that  (hreetion,  sir." 
"  I  am  greatly  ohliged  to  you,  sir." 
He  ehirrui)ed,  jogged  his  feet  against  the 
horse's  rihs,  and  rode  off  at  a  trot, — jog-trot, — in 
the  (lireetion  indicated.  1  watched  him  until  his 
peaked  eaj)  \  anished  among  the  boughs.  This 
new  stranger  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  his  pre- 
decessor, so  far  as  his  external  appearance  was 
concerned.  His  face,  round  and  puffy  as  a  ball, 
expressed  bashfulness,  good-nature,  and  gentle 
resignation:  his  nose,  which  was  also  round  and 
])uffy  and  si)eckled  with  blue  veins,  betrayed  the 
sensualist.  Not  a  single  hair  remained  on  his 
head  in  fiont;  at  the  back,  thin  red  hair  stuck  out; 
his  small  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have  been  cleft 
with  a  cutting  sedge,  blinked  amiably;  his  red, 
lush  lips  smiled  sweetly.  He  \vore  a  surtout  with 
a  standing  collar  and  brass  buttons,  extremely 
threadbare,  but  clean;  above  the  yellow^  tops  of 
liis  boots,  his  fat  calves  w^ere  visible. 

"  ^Vho  is  that?  " — I  inquired  of  Krmolai. 
"That?    Xedopiuskin,  Tikhon  Ivanitch.     He 
lives  with  Tehertoi)khanoff." 

'The  respectful  torm  of  "lie"  or  "she,"  according  to  the 
context. — Translator. 

194 


TCITERTOrKTTAXOFF 

"  What  is  he, — a  poor  man?  " 

"He  isn't  rich;  but  tlien,  TchertopkhanofF 
has  n't  a  brass  cent." 

"  Then  why  has  he  taken  up  his  abode  with 
him?  " 

"  Why,  they  have  struck  up  a  friendship,  yon 
see.  The  friend  never  goes  anywhere  without  his 
friend 'T  is  a  regular  case  of  whitherso- 
ever the  steed  goes  with  his  hoofs,  thither  also 
"oes  the  crab  with  his  claws.  .  .  ." 

We  emerged  from  the  bushes;  all  at  once,  the 
two  huntsmen  began  to  "  give  the  view-halloo  " 
alongside  of  us,  and  a  huge  grey  hare  rolled 
over  the  oats,  which  were  already  fairly  tall.  In 
their  wake,  the  harriers  and  harehounds  leaped 
out  of  the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  in  the  wake  of 
the  dogs  forth  flew  TchertopkhanoflP  himself. 
He  was  not  shouting  nor  urging  them  on,  nor 
hallooing;  he  was  panting  and  gasping;  from  his 
gaping  mouth  abrupt,  unintelligible  sounds  broke 
forth  from  time  to  time;  he  dashed  onward,  with 
protruding  eyes,  and  flogging  his  unhappy  horse 
frantically  with  his  kazak  whip.  The  hare- 
hounds  "  overshot  " ; the  hare  squatted, 

turned  sharply  back  on  its  track,  and  dashed  past 

Ermolai  into  tlie  bushes The  hounds  swept 

by. — "  L-1-l-look  o-o-out,  1-1-1-look  o-o-out!  "  fal- 
tered the  fainting  sportsman,  with  an  efl'ort,  as 
though  stammei'ing: — "look  out,  my  good 
man!"     Ermolai  flred  ....  the  wounded  hare 

195 


MKMOIRS  OF  A   SPOKTSMAN 

rolled  like  a  spimiiii^-top  over  the  smooth,  dry 
grass.  «rjive  a  leap  upward,  and  began  to  scream 
j)itifnll\  ill  the  tcetli  of  the  dogwhichwas  rendmg 
him  asumlri-:  the  harriers  immediatelydashed  up. 

TehertopUhanoft'  flew' off  his  liorse  like  a  tum- 
l)ler  j)ige(»n.  jerked  out  his  dagger,  ran  up,  strad- 
dhng  his  legs  far  ai)art,  to  the  dogs,  with  wrathful 
exclamations  wrested  from  them  the  tortured 
hare,  and  with  his  face  all  twisted  awry.  ])lunged 
liis  daauer  ui)  to  the  very  hilt  into  the  creature's 
throat  ....  plunged  it  in,  and  began  to  cackle. 
Tikhoii  Iviiniteh  made  his  appearance  on  the 
edge  of  the  woods.  "  Ilo-ho-ho-ho-lio-ho-ho! " 
roared  Tehei'topkhanoff  a  second  time.  .  .  . 
"  Ilo-ho-ho-ho."'  repeated  his  comrade  quietly. 

"  But.  you  know,  it  isn't  the  proper  thing  to 
hunt  in  the  summer," — I  remarked,  indicating 
the  rtattened  oats  to  Tchertopkhanoff. 

"  "T  is  my  field,' — replied  Tchertopkhanoff, 
barely  breathing. 

lie  ripped  up  the  hare,  disembowelled  it,  and 
distributed  the  paws  to  the  dogs. 

"  Charge  the  cartridge  to  me,  my  dear  fellow," 
—he  said,  according  to  the  rides  of  sport,  address- 
ing Krmolai. — "  And  as  for  you,  my  dear  sir," 
— he  added  in  the  same  abrupt  and  cutting  voice: 
— "  I  tliank  you." 

lie  mounted  his  horse. 

"  I'er-mit  me  to  iiKpiire  ...  1  forgot  about 
that   .   .   .  youi-  name  and  surname." 

196 


TCHKHTOPKITANOFF 

Again  J  intioduced  myself. 

"  Very  glad  to  make  your  aecjiiaiiitaiiee.  If 
you  happen  to  come  my  way,  j^ray  droj)  in  to  see 

me But    where 's    that    Fomka,    TiUhon 

IvanitchJ'" — he  went  on  testily : — "the  hare  has 
been  run  down  in  his  absence." 

"  His  liorse  tumbled  down  under  him,"  replied 
Tikhon  Ivanitch,  with  a  smile. 

"Tumbled    down?     Orbassan   tumbled   down! 

Phew,    pshaw! Where   is   he,   where    is 

he?" 

"  Yonder — the  other  side  of  the  wood." 

Tchertopkhanoff  lashed  his  horse  on  the  muz- 
zle with  his  kazak  whipj  and  galloped  off  at  a 
breakneck  pace.  Tikhon  Ivanitch  made  me  a 
couple  of  bows, — one  for  himself,  one  on  his  com- 
rade's account, — and  again  set  oiF  at  a  trot 
through  the  bushes. 

These  two  gentlemen  had  strongly  excited  my 
curiosity.  .  .  .  What  could  unite  in  the  bonds  of 
indestructible  friendship  two  beings  so  utterly 
different?  I  began  to  make  inquiries.  This  is 
what  I  learned. 

Tchertopkhanoff,  Pantelei  Eremyeitch,  bore 
the  reputation  throughout  the  whole  countryside 
of  being  a  dangerous  and  crackbrained  man,  an 
arrogant  man  and  bully  of  the  worst  sort.     He 

'  This  nagaika  is  a  cruel — a  deadly  iiuplenient.  It  consists  of 
a  short,  thick  handle,  jointed  to  a  stiff  "lash"  of  nearly  tiie  same 
lenptl)  (l)oth  of  rawhide),  terminal ing  in  a  small,  flat  disk,  also  of 
rawhide. — Traxslatou. 

197 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A   SrORTSMxVN 

had  served  ior  a  \ ery  brief  period  in  the  army, and 
liad  retired  from  it,  "  in  eonsequence  of  mipleas- 
antnesses,"  with  that  rank  concerning  which  there 
exists  a  wide-spread  opinion  that  a  "chicken  is  not 
a  l)ird  " — that  is,  too  insignificant  to  be  considered 
as  rank  at  all.  He  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient house  wliich  liad  once  been  wealthy;  his  an- 
cestors had  lived  luxuriously  after  the  manner  of 
the  stepi^es:  that  is  to  say,  they  welcomed  bidden 
and  un!)idden  guests  and  fed  them  to  satiety,  as 
though  for  slaughter:  provided  strange  coachmen 
w  ith  half  a  dozen  bushels  of  oats  for  their  troika 
horses;  kept  musicians,  singers,  buffoons  and 
hounds:  travelled  to  ^loscow  in  the  winter  in  their 
own  i)onderous  ancient  coaches;  on  festival  days 
supplied  the  populace  with  liquor  and  home-made 
heel":  and  sometimes  were  without  a  penny  for 
months  at  a  stretch,  and  subsisted  on  horse-prov- 
ender.' Pantelei  Eremyeitcirs  father  inherited 
the  property  in  a  ruined  condition;  he,  in  his  turn, 
also  ''  caroused,"  and,  dying,  left  to  his  onlj^  son 
and  heir,  I'antelei,  the  mortgaged  hamlet  of  Bez- 
sonovo,  with  thirty-five  souls  of  the  male  sex  and 
se\enty-six  of  the  female  sex,  together  with  four- 
teen desyatinas  and  an  eighth  of  inconvenient 
land  in  the  Kolobrod  waste,  to  which,  however, 
the  deceased  possessed  no  documentary  proofs  of 
his  ownership.     The  deceased  had  ruined  himself 

'  Oatiiieiil  and  coriimcal   (wliicli  I;ist  is  Uiiowii  iti  llic  south  of 
Russia)   would  coiiit'  undtr  tliis  licad. — Translator. 

198 


TCIIKllTOPKIIAXOFF 

in  a  very  strange  manner,  it  must  be  confessed 
— "  domestic  economy  "  luid  been  bis  ])erdition. 
According  to  bis  ideas,  a  nobleman  ougbt  not  to 
depend  upon  tbe  mercliants,  tbe  town-dwellers, 
and  sucb-like  "brigands,"  as  he  expressed  it;  be 
set  up  on  bis  estate  all  sorts  of  handicrafts 
and  workshops:  " 'T  is  both  more  seemly  and 
cheaper," — he  was  wont  to  say:  "'tis  domestic 
economy!  "  He  never  got  rid  of  that  pernicious 
idea  to  the  end  of  his  life;  and  it  ruined  him. 
On  the  other  hand,  bow  he  did  enjoy  himself! 
He  never  denied  himself  a  single  whim.  Among 
other  caprices,  he  once  had  constructed,  accord- 
ing to  bis  own  designs,  such  a  huge  family  car- 
riage that,  in  spite  of  the  vigorous  efforts  of 
the  peasants'  horses,  which  had  been  impressed 
from  the  entire  village,  along  with  their  owners, 
it  tumbled  down  at  the  first  declivity,  and  went 
to  pieces.  Efremyei  Liikitcb  (that  was  the 
name  of  Pantelei's  father)  caused  a  monument 
to  be  erected  on  the  bill,  but  was  not  in  tbe 
least  disconcerted.  He  also  took  it  into  bis  head 
to  build  a  church,  on  his  own  responsibility, 
of  course,  without  tbe  aid  of  an  architect.  He 
burned  a  whole  forest  to  bake  tbe  bricks,  he  laid 
an  enormous  foundation,  as  though  for  the  cathe- 
dral of  a  government  capital,  reared  the  walls, 
and  began  to  construct  the  arch  for  the  cupola: 
the  cupola  caved  in.  He  rebuilt  it, — again  the 
cupola  fell ;  he  did  it  a  third  time,  and  for  tbe  third 

199 


.MKMOIRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

time  tlie  fui)()la  IVll  to  pieces.  My  Eremyei  Lu- 
kiteh  relteeted.     "  There  's  sometliino-  wrong,"  he 

tlioijoht "  some    damned    witchcraft    is 

mixed  ii[)  with  it  .  .  .  ."  and  all  of  a  sudden  he 
ordered  that  all  the  old  jjcasant  women  in  the 
village  should  he  fiogged.  The  women  were 
flogged, — but  the  cupola  refused  to  be  con- 
structed, nevertheless.  He  began  to  rebuild  the 
peasants'  cottages  on  a  new  plan,  and  all  at  his 
own  expense;  he  built  three  cottages  together 
in  a  triangle,  and  in  the  centre  he  erected  a  pole 
surmounted  by  a  painted  starling-house  and  a 
Hag.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  devising  a  fresh 
freak  every  day:  now  he  made  soup  of  burdock, 
ai»ain  he  shaved  off  the  tails  of  the  horses  to 
make  caps  for  his  house-serfs,  next  he  made 
j)re])arations  to  replace  flax  with  nettles,  or  to 
feed  his  pigs  on  mushrooms.  .  .  .  One  day  he 
read  in  TJic  Moscotc  News  an  article  by  a  land- 
owner of  the  Kluirkhoff  Government,  named 
Khrvak-Khrupyorsky,  concerning  the  advan- 
tages of  morality  in  the  life  of  the  serfs,  and  on 
the  very  next  day  he  issued  an  order  to  all  the 
serfs  that  they  should  forthwith  learn  the  Khar- 
khoff  s(|uire's  article  by  heart.  The  serfs  learned 
the  article;  their  noble  master  asked  them:  "  Did 
they  understand  what  was  written  therein?  "  The 
overseer  replied:  "  How  could  they  fail  to  under- 
stand ?  "  About  the  same  time  he  commanded  all 
his  subjects,  on  the  score  of  order  and  domestic 

200 


re  1 1 KUTOPKHAXOFF 

economy,  to  he  iiiunhered,  and  each  one  to  have 
his  number  sewn  on  his  collar.  Each  person,  on 
meeting  the  master,  used  to  call  out:  "  Such-and- 
such  a  number  is  coming!  "  and  the  master  would 
reply  amiably:  "  (ro  thv  way,  and  God  protect 
thee!" 

But,  in  spite  of  order  and  domestic  econom^^ 
Eremyei  Lukitch  gradually  got  into  very  difficult 
straits:  first  he  began  to  mortgage  his  estates, 
then  he  proceeded  to  sell  them,  and  the  last  one, 
the  ancestral  nest,  the  large  village  witli  the  un- 
finished church,  was  sold  by  the  treasury,  fortu- 
nately, not  during  the  lifetime  of  Eremyei  Lii- 
kitch, — he  could  not  have  borne  that  blow, — but 
two  wrecks  after  his  death.  He  managed  to  ex- 
pire in  his  own  house,  in  liis  own  bed,  surrounded 
by  his  own  people,  and  under  the  supervision  of 
his  own  medical  man,  but  poor  Pantelei  inherited 
nothing  except  Bezsonovo. 

Pantelei  was  already  in  the  service,  in  the  very 
thick  of  the  above-mentioned  "unpleasantnesses," 
when  he  heard  of  his  father's  death.  He  had  re- 
cently attained  the  age  of  eighteen.  From  his 
very  childhood,  he  had  never  quitted  the  parental 
roof,  and  under  the  guidance  of  his  mother,  an 
extremely  amiable,  but  tlioroughly  dull-witted 
woman,  Vasilisa  Vasilievna,  he  had  grown  u])  a 
spoiled  child,  and  a  regular  little  country  squire. 
She  alone  took  charge  of  his  education;  Eremyei 
Liikitch,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  his  experiments  in 

201 


ME^roiRS  OF  A  sports:ma>; 

tloiiiestic  economy,  had  no  time  for  that.  To  tell 
the  truth,  lie  did  once  chastise  his  son  with  his  own 
hands  I'or  pronouncing  the  letter  Rtzy,'  artzy; 
but  that  (lav.  Kremvei  Liikitch  ^vas  ijrofoundlv 
and  secretly  afflicted;  his  best  hound  had  been 
killed  against  a  tree.  However,  Vasilisa  Vasi- 
lievna's  anxieties  in  regard  to  the  education  of 
Pantiusha  were  confined  to  torturing  effort 
alone;  in  the  sweat  of  her  brow  she  hired  for  him 
as  governor  an  ex-soldier,  an  Alsatian,  a  certain 
BirchhofF  (and  to  the  day  of  her  death,  she  trem- 
bled like  a  leaf  before  him:  "  Well,"  she  said  to 
herself,  ''  if  he  resigns — I  am  lost!  What  shall  I 
do?  Where  shall  I  find  another  teacher?  Even 
this  one  I  liu'ed  awav  from  a  neighbour  with  the 
greatest  difficulty!"').  xVnd  BirchhofF,  like  the 
shrewd  man  he  was,  immediately  took  advantage 
of  his  exceptional  position :  he  drank  himself  dead 
drunk,  and  slept  from  morning  till  night.  At  the 
conclusion  of  his  "  course  of  sciences,"  Pantelei 
entered  the  service.  Vasilisa  A^asflievna  was  no 
longer  living.  She  had  died  six  months  previous 
to  this  important  event,  from  fright;  in  her 
dreams  she  had  ])eheld  a  vision  of  a  white  man  rid- 
ing a  bear.  Eremyei  I^ukitch  speedily  followed 
his  better  half. 

Pantelei,  at  the  first  news  of  his  illness,  gal- 

'  The  Slavonic  name  of  the  letter  R.  Russian  children  are  taught 
a  certain  amount  of  Old  Church  Slavonic,  to  enable  them  to  un- 
derstand the  services  of  tiie  Church,  which  arc  conducted  ex- 
clusively   in   that   language. — Traxsi.atoh. 

202 


TCIlKJ{T(/iM\IlA\C)FF 

loped  home  at  breakneck  speed,  hut  (hd  not  find 
his  parent  ahve.  But  what  was  the  amazement  of 
the  res2)eetful  son,  wlien  he  suddenly  found  him- 
self con\  erted  fi'om  a  wealthy  heir  into  a  paujjer! 
Few  are  able  to  endure  so  abrupt  a  change.  Pan- 
telei  grew  unsociable  and  hard.  From  an  honour- 
able, lavish,  amiable,  though  harebrained  and  hot- 
tempered  fellow,  he  changed  into  an  arrogant 
man  and  a  bully,  and  ceased  to  hold  intercourse 
with  his  neighbours,— he  was  ashamed  before  the 
wealthy,  despised  the  poor,  and  behaved  with 
unheard-of  insolence  to  everybody — even  to  the 
constituted  authorities;  as  much  as  to  say:  "  I  'm  a 
nobleman  of  ancient  lineage."  Once  he  came 
near  shoctting  the  commissary  of  rural  ])olice,  who 
had  entered  his  room  with  his  cap  on  his  head. 
The  powers,  of  course,  on  their  side,  did  not  par- 
don his  attitude,  and,  on  occasion,  made  them- 
selves felt;  yet,  all  the  same,  he  was  feared,  be- 
cause he  was  a  frightfully  hot-tempered  man,  and 
at  the  second  word  pi'o])osed  a  duel  with  knives. 
At  the  slightest  02)i)osition,  Tchertopkhanoff's 
eyes  began  to  groA\'  wild,  his  voice  began  to  break. 
....  "Ah,va-va-va-va-va!  "  he  stammered,  "damn 
my  head!  '"....  And  bang  it  would  go  against 
the  wall!  iVnd  more  than  that,  he  was  a  clean 
man,  and  not  mixed  up  in  anything.  Of  course 
no  one  went  to  his  house And,  neverthe- 
less, his  was  a  kind,  even  a  great  soul,  in  its  way: 
he  would  not  tolerate  injustice  or  oppression  even 

203 


.MKMOUiS   OF   A    SPOKTSMAX 

toNsanl  a  .straii«>vr:  lie  stood  up  for  liis  peasants 
l)y  cNtrv  ineaiis  in  his  power. — "  Wliat  ?  "  lie  said, 
i'rantieally  slai)pint4-  his  own  liead:— "  toueli  my 
pe()i)le,  my  pe()i)le^  Not  while  1  am  Tcliertop- 
khanott'!  ."  .   .  ." 

Unlike  l\intelei  Eremyeiteh,  Tikhon  Ivanitch 
Xedopiuskin  could  not  cherish  pride  in  his  ex- 
traction. His  father  had  come  of  the  petty  free- 
holder class,  and  only  bv  dint  of  forty  years  of 
.service  had  he  acquired  nobility.  ]Mr.  Xedopiu- 
skin Senior  had  belonged  to  the  category  of  peo- 
ple whom  ill-liK'k  pursues  with  an  obduracy 
which  resembles  personal  hatred.  For  the  space 
of  sixty  whole  years,  from  his  very  birth  to  his 
very  death,  the  poor  man  had  contended  with  all 
the  poverty,  infirmities,  and  calamities  which  are 
])eculiar  to  petty  people;  he  floundered  like  a  flsh 
on  the  ice,  never  had  food  or  sleep  enough, 
cringed,  toiled,  grieved,  and  languished,  trembled 
over  every  ko})ck,  actually  sufl^'ered  in  the  service, 
though  innocent,  and  died,  at  last,  in  a  garret  or 
a  cellar,  without  having  succeeded  in  amassing 
either  for  himself  or  his  children  a  bit  of  daily 
bread.  Fate  had  shaken  him  as  a  dog  shakes  a 
hare  in  the  chase.  He  had  been  a  good  and  hon- 
est man,  but  had  taken  bribes — ranging  from  a 
twenty-ko})ek  piece  to  two  rubles,  inclusive..  X^e- 
dopiuskin  bad  had  a  wife,  a  thin,  consumptive 
woman:  and  he  had  had  children:  luckily,  they 
had  all  died  soon,  with  the  exception  of  Tikbon 

204 


TC'IIKHTOPKIIAXOFF 

and  a  daughter  ]Mitrod6ra,  by  profession  a 
"  dandy  of  tlie  niercliant  class,"  who,  after  many 
sorrowful  and  ridiculous  adventures,  liad  married 
a  retired  pettifogger.  Mr.  Xedopiuskin  Senior 
had  managed,  during  his  lifetime,  to  get  Ti'khon 
appointed  as  sui)crnumerary  official  in  a  chan- 
cellery; but  immediately  after  his  parent's  death, 
Tfkhon  resigned.  The  eternal  trepidations,  the 
torturing  battle  with  cold  and  hunger,  the  melan- 
choly dejection  of  his  mother,  the  toilsome,  anx- 
ious despair  of  his  father,  the  rough  oppressions 
of  landlords  and  shopkeepers, — all  this  daily,  un- 
intermittent  woe  had  bred  in  Tfkhon  inexpressi- 
ble timidity:  at  the  very  sight  of  his  superior  offi- 
cial he  would  begin  to  quake  and  turn  faint,  like 
a  captured  bird.  He  abandoned  the  service.  In- 
different, and  perhaps  derisive,  nature  imbues 
people  with  various  cajjacities  and  inclinations, 
which  are  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  their  posi- 
tion in  society  and  with  their  means;  with  the  care 
and  love  peculiar  to  her,  she  had  moulded  Tfkhon, 
the  son  of  the  poverty-stricken  official,  into  a  sen- 
sitive, indolent,  soft,  impressionable  being,  ad- 
dicted exclusively  to  enjoyment,  gifted  with  an 
excessively  delicate  sense  of  smell  and  taste  .... 
had  moulded  him,  carefully  put  on  the  finishing 
touches,  and  had  left  her  production  to  grow  up 
on  sour  cabbage  and  putrid  fish.  But  he  did  grow 
up,  that  product  of  hers,  and  began,  as  the  saying- 
goes,   to  "  live."     Then  the  fun   began.      Fate, 

205 


MK.MOIHS  OF  A   Sl^ORTSMAX 

whicli  had  nnrcniittintrly  tormented  Nedopiuskiu 
Senior,  hegan  on  his  son:  eviilently,  she  had  ac- 
(juirecl  a  taste.  Hnt  with  Tikhon  slie  adopted  a 
diflVrent  eonrse:  slie  did  not  tortnre  liim, — she 
amnsed  lieisclf  w  itli  liini.  She  never  once  drove 
him  to  despair,  never  made  him  experience  the 
mortilyin^-  tortnre  of  linnger.  hnt  slie  drove  him 
all  over  Knssia,  from  A\'liky-Usting  to  Tzarevo- 
Kokshiiisk,  from  one  hnmiliatino-  and  ridicnlous 
employment  to  another:  now  she  promoted  him  to 
!)(.■  ■  iiiajordomo  "  to  a  \'ixenis]i  and  splenetic 
henefactress  of  nol)le  hirth;  then  appointed  him 
at  tile  head  of  the  domestic  chancellery  of  a 
mole-eyed  nohleman  with  his  hair  clipped  in  the 
Knglish  fashion;  then  made  him  half-hutler,  half- 
jester  to  a   master  of  the  honnds In   a 

word.  Fate  forced  poor  Tikhon  to  drain  drop  by 
(li'op.  and  to  the  last  drop,  the  whole  bitter  and 
venomons  j)oti()n  oj'  an  inferior  existence.  He 
sei\i(l.  III  his  time,  the  ponderons  caprice,  the 
sleepy  and  spiteful  tedium,  of  idle  gentlefolk. 
.  .  .  .  How  many  times,  alone  in  his  chamber, 
dismissed  at  last  with  the  words  "  God  be  with 
thee  "  '  after  a  horde  of  guests  had  amused  them- 
selves with  him  to  their  fill,  had  he  vowed,  all 
flushed  with  shame,  with  cold  tears  of  des])air  in 
his  ( yes,  to  run  away  secretly  that  very  day,  to 
tiy  his  hick  in  the  town,  to  find  himself  some 
petty  j)lace,  if  only  that  of  a  copying-clerk;  or, 

'  EquivaU-iil  to  ])olite  dismissal.     Tkanslatoh. 

206 


TCIIERTOPKIIAXOFF 

once  for  all,  to  die  of  hunger  in  the  street.  lUit, 
in  the  first  place,  God  did  not  give  him  tlie 
strength  for  that;  in  the  second  place,  timidity 
began  to  torment  him;  and,  in  the  third  place,  in 
conclusion, — how  was  he  to  obtain  a  ])lace  for 
liimself,  whom  was  he  to  ask?  "  They  won't  give 
me  one,"  the  unhappy  man  would  whisper,  as  he 
tossed  dejectedly  on  his  bed:  "  they  won't  give  me 
one!  "  On  the  following  day,  he  would  begin  to 
bear  the  yoke  again. .  His  position  was  all  tlie 
more  painful,  in  that  nature  had  not  troubled  her- 
self to  endow  him  with  even  a  small  modicum  oi' 
those  capacities  and  gifts  without  which  the  part 
of  jester  is  almost  impossible.  For  example,  he 
could  not  dance  until  he  dropped  with  fatigue  in 
a  bear's  skin  worn  wrong  side  but;  neither  could 
he  play  the  buffoon  and  the  courtier  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  freeh'  used  dog-whips;  when 
put  out  of  doors  naked  at  a  temperatiu'e  of 
twenty  degrees  below  zero,  he  sometimes  caught 
cold;  his  stomach  could  digest  neither  wine  mixed 
with  ink  and  other  filth,  nor  toadstools  and 
poison-mushrooms  crumbled  up  in  vinegar.  Tlie 
liOrd  knows  what  would  have  become  of  Tikhon, 
if  the  last  of  his  benefactors,  a  distiller  who  had 
acquired  wealth,  had  not  taken  it  into  his  head,  in 
a  jovial  hour,  to  add  a  codicil  to  his  will:  "  And 
to  Zyoza  (also  called  Tikhon)  Nedopiuskin  I 
bequeatli  for  eternal  and  hereditary  possession 
my  village  :^f  Bezselendyeevka,  acquired  by  my- 

207 


MKMOIKS   Ol'    A    srOHTSMAX 

self,  toiivtlu  r  \\  itii  all  ils  (lo|K!uKM\i'ii\s."  Sf\  i  mm] 
iljivs  hitiT,  tlu'  Ih'Iu  r.u-lor  dii'ii  of  m  stroke"  of  j);i- 
ralvsis.  omt  a  sltiKt  soiii).  'riuro  w  as  a  comnu)- 
tii>n;  tiu"  olliirrs  o\'  [\\c  law  made'  a  (k'scriil  aiul 
atlixcHJ  M'als  io  the  property  in  tlu'  ri\<4ular  I'onn. 
'Vhv  ix'lalixfs  assi'iiibU'd ;  llu'  will  was  oj)eMH>(l; 
tlicv  read  it,  aiui  drinaiuK-d  Xi'dopiuskin.  \ih1o- 
piuskin  pri'sciitrd  liimsell'.  'Pin-  majority  ni'  \\\c 
asscMiilih  N\  ere  aware  oi'  tlu-  i)osl  wliii-h  Tikhon 
Ivaniti'h  IkuI  oc'i'iii)i<.'d  iiiulcr  his  boiicl'ai'lor; 
ik'atViiin*»"  (.'xolamations.  jieiinL!'  I'onnratiilalions, 
wcro  siiowcMvd  iii)oii  liim  on  his  a])i)caraiKV. 
"  'Vhc  landed  prv^j)rittoi\  tluii-  he  is,  the  new 
landed  ])roj)rietor!  "  yelled  the  othei-  luars. 
"  Well,  now  yon  know,"  j)nt  in  one  well-known 
jester  anel  wit:  '"  \ow,  really,  yon  know,  one"  m.ay 

sav re'allv,  \ou  know    ....   thai    .... 

is    what    is   ealle-el    ....    that  's the 

heir."  .\nel  all  I'airly  hursl  \\ilh  huiiihler.  l'\>r 
a  long  time,  Xedopii'iskin  we)nlel  not  he>lie"\  e  in  his 
good  fortnne.  They  slu)weel  him  the  will,  he 
turned  searlet,  seri'weel  \\\)  his  eyevs,  iR^gan  to 
brandish  his  arms,  anel  fell  to  w  e\>i)ing  in  torrents. 
The  ne)isv  langhter  e)l'  tlu"  assembly  ehanoeel  into 
a  thiek  anel  unanime)us  roar.  The>  village'  of 
Bezseientlyeevka  eonsisteel,  in  all,  ol'  two-anel- 
twenty  serfs;  ne)  e)ne  greatly  begruelged  it  ;  there- 
fore, why  not  ha\e  se^me  spe)rt  out  of  it  ^.  Owe  heir 
nidy,  a  man  from  Pe'te'i-shnrg,  a  pom])e>ns  man 
with    a    (ireeian    nose    anel    the    nuxst    ne)ble'    e\- 

'20S 


rCHKHTOIMxIIAXr)!  ] 

pnrssion  of  '■()\\h\<i\:iM'-<-.  Ilostislaff  ArJ;irnitf.-h 
Sf'lifoppfrJ,  coiiM  fifjt  rndijff:  jt,  u\<)\<(\  up  sidf;- 
ways  fo  \<:(\<)])\usk]ti,  utid  stared  at  )iir/i  uvro- 
^antly  over  liis  sliouJdcf.  "  So  far  as  1  can  see, 
rrjy  (jear  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  seornf'ulJy-eareless 
manner,  "  yon  ]\;i\'-  \)<(n  Ii\'inf^-  wit,})  the  re- 
Sf)ected  FeorJo/-  J'f  ofJoro\itf}]  in  the  e-apacitv  of 
jester,  or  servant,  so  to  speak?  "  'J'he  gentleman 
i'loin  I*ete'rsf>nr^'  expressecJ  liimself  in  insnfrer- 
afily  elear,  (k;M,  nnd  legular  Janr>uage.  'Idie  flus- 
tered, njj;'\\ii\<(l  \'doj;irisl:in  did  nr;t  eateh  the 
words  of  tlie  strange  gentJenjan,  fiut  alJ  t}je  others 
imnjediately  fell  silen^;  tlie  wit  smiled  conde- 
seerjdingly.  Mr.  Sehtoppf  1  nih}>ed  his  hanrjs  anrl 
r-epejd'd  liis  (juestion.  Xf-dojjiriskin  raiser]  Ijis 
eyes  in  ama/ement,  and  opr-ned  his  /nonth.  Ilos- 
tishifl*  Adjimiteh  narrowed  his  eyes  \(./ionjfjusJy. 
I  efjngialniate  you,  my  dear  sir,  I  eongratu- 
late  you,"  he  went  on:—"  truth  U)  teJJ,  not  every 
one  woiilfJ  have  consented  to  earrrrn  his  daily 
hread  i»i  that  manner;  hut  de  guHtibuH  non  est  dis- 
'/mtandum,  that  is  to  say,  every  one  to  his  taste. 
.  .  .    Is  n't  t}i?it  so?  " 

Some  onr-  in  the  rear  ranks  gave  a  swift  hut  de- 
corous squeal  of  surj>rise  and  delight. 

"Tell  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Sehtoppel,  greatly 
en(;ourau('d  hv  the  smiles  of  the  assemhiv: — "to 
which  talent  in  [)articular  are  you  indehted  for 
your  gofnl  fortune?  No,  he  not  ashamed,  speak 
out;  we  are  all  of  the  family  here,  so  to  speak, 

200 


MKMOIUS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

cji  fdniillf.  Wc  arc  liere  eu  famillc,  are  wc  not, 
gentlemen  ?  " 

Tlie  lieir  to  w  lioni  RostislafF  Achiniitch  chanced 
to  appeal  with  this  (piestion  did  not  know  French, 
unfortunately,  and  therefore  confined  himself  to 
emitting  a  I'aint  grunt  of  approval.  On  the  other 
hand,  another  heir,  a  young  man  with  yellowish 
hlotciies  on  his  hrow,  made  haste  to  put  in:  "Voui, 
voiii ,  ol'  course!  " 

"  Perhaps," — hegan  ]Mr.  Schto])pel  again, 
"  vou  can  walk  on  your  hands,  with  your  feet  ele- 
vated,  so  to  speak,  in  the  air?  " 

Xedopiiiskin  cast  a  sorrowful  glance  around 
him — all  faces  wore  a  spiteful  smile,  all  eyes  were 
covered  with  the  moisture  of  satisfaction. 

"  Or,  perchance,  you  can  crow  like  a  cock?  " 

A  gufi'aw  of  laughter  ran  the  round,  and  im- 
mediately ceased,  quelled  hy  expectation. 

"  Or,   perchance,   you  can   halance   things   on 


your  nose 


Stop!  " — -a  sharp,  loud  voice  suddenly  in- 
terrupted Kostislaff  Adamitch: — "aren't  you 
ashamed  to  torment  the  poor  man!  " 

All  glanced  round.  At  the  door  stood  Tcher- 
topkhanoff.  In  his  quality  of  nephew  thrice 
removed  of  the  deceased  distiller,  he  also  had  re- 
ceived a  note  of  invitation  to  the  family  gather- 
ing. During  the  whole  time  of  the  reading,  he — 
as  always — had  held  himself  haughtily  apart 
fi'oMi  llie  rest. 

210 


TCTIEKTOl^KIIAXOFF 

"Stop!" — he  repeated,  throwing  liis  head 
back  arrogantly. 

JMr.  Schtoppel  turned  swiftly  round,  and,  be- 
holding a  man  poorly  clad,  not  good-looking,  he 
asked  his  neighbour  in  a  low  tone  (caution  is 
never  amiss)  : 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  TchertopkhanofF,  a  person  of  no  impor- 
tance," the  latter  replied  in  his  ear. 

RostislafF  Adamitcli  assumed  an  arrogant 
mien. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  conmiander?  " — he  said 
through  his  nose,  puckering  up  his  eyes. — "  What 
sort  of  a  bird  are  you,  permit  me  to  inquire?  " 

TchertopkhanofF  flared  up,  like  powder  at  a 
spark.    Rage  stopped  his  breath. 

"  Dz-dz-dz-dz," — he  hissed,  like  a  choking 
man,  and  suddenly  thundered  out: 

"  Who  am  I?  who  am  I?  I  am  Pantelei  Tcher- 
topkhanofl^,  a  noble  of  ancient  lineage, — my 
great-great-grandfather's  grandfather  served  the 
Tzar, — but  who  art  thou?  " 

Rostislaif  Adamitcli  turned  pale,  and  retreated 
a  pace.     He  had  not  anticipated  such  resistance. 

"  I  am  a  bird,  I — I  a  bird!  ....  Oo  .  .  o!  .  .  .  ." 

Tchertopkhanoff  darted  forward;  Schtoppel 
sprang  aside  in  great  perturbation,  the  guests 
flew  at  the  irritated  squire. 

"  Exchange  shots,  exchange  sliots  this  very 
momeni,   across  a  handkerchief!  " — shouted   the 

211 


MKMOIKS   OF   A    STOUTSMAN 

thon)u<>lil\   infiiriatcil  Pantelei: — "or  thou  must 
beg  my  pardon,  aiul  liis 

"  llv^x  liis  pardoii,  hvy;  liis  pardon," — mur- 
mured till-  startled  heirs  round  about  Selitoppel: 
"  he 's  a  reguhu-  madman,  you  know, — quite 
ready  to  cut  your  throat." 

"  Kxeuse  me,  excuse  me,  1  did  not  know," — 
stammered  Selitoppel: — "  I  did  not  know " 

"  And  do  thou  ask  his  pardon  also!" — roared 
the  irrepressible  Pantelei. 

"  And  do  you  pray  excuse  me  also," — added 
Rostislaff  Adamitch,  turning  to  Nedopiuskin, 
who  was  shaking  as  though  with  fever. 

Tchertopkhanoff  calmed  down,  went  up  to 
Ti'khoti  hanitch,  took  him  by  the  hand,  cast  a 
challenging  glance  around,  and,  without  meet- 
ing any  one's  eye,  left  the  room  in  triumph,  ac- 
companied by  the  new  owner  of  the  village  of 
Bezselendyeevka. 

Fiom  that  day  forth,  they  never  parted  com- 
pany again.  (The  village  of  Bezselendyeevka 
was  only  eiyht  versts  distant  from  BezscSnovo.) 
Xedoi)iuskin's  unbounded  gratitude  speedily 
pa.ssed  into  servile  adoi-ation.  The  weak,  soft,  not 
altogether  clean  Ti'khon  bowed  down  in  the  dust 
before  the  fearless  and  disinterested  Pantelei. 
"  'T  is  no  small  matter,"  he  sometimes  thought  to 
himself: — "he  talks  with  the  Governor,  he  looks 
him  straight  in  the  eye.  .  .  .  Christ  is  my  witness, 
^je  looks  him  in  the  eye,  that  he  does!  " 

lie  admired  him  to  ihc  ])oint  of  perplexity,  to 

212 


TCTIKRTOPKTTAXOFF 

the  enfeeblement  of  his  mental  powers;  he  re- 
garded liini  as  a  remarkable,  a  wise,  a  learned 
man.  And,  truth  to  tell,  bad  as  Tchertopkha- 
noff's  education  had  been,  still,  in  comparison 
with  that  of  Tfkhon,  it  might  be  considered  bril- 
liant. Tcherto})kluinoff\  it  is  true,  read  little  in 
Russian,  understood  French  imperfectly, — so  im- 
perfectly that  one  day,  in  reply  to  the  question  of 
a  Swiss  tutor:  "Vous  paiiez  fran^ms.  Monsieur?" 
he  answered:  '"  je  ne  understand,"  and  after  re- 
flecting a  while,  he  added :  ''  pas  " ; — but,  never- 
theless, he  remembered  that  there  had  existed  in 
the  world  a  very  wittv  writer,  Voltaire,  and  also 
that  Frederick  the  Great,  King  of  Prussia,  had 
distinguished  himself  in  the  military  line. 
Among  Russian  writers  he  respected  Derzhavin, 
but  loved  jMiirlinsky,  and  named  his  best  dog 
Ammalat-Beg.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  after  my  first  encounter  with  the 
two  friends,  I  set  off  for  the  hamlet  of  Bezso- 
novo,  to  call  upon  Pantelei  Eremyeitch.  His 
tiny  house  was  visible  from  afar;  it  reared  itself 
up  on  a  bare  spot,  half  a  verst  from  the  \'illage, 
"  in  an  exposed  site,"  as  the  saying  is,  like  a  hawk 
hovering  over  ploughed  fields.  Tchertopkha- 
noff's  entire  manor  consisted  of  four  ancient  log 
edifices  of  various  sizes,  namely :  a  wing,  a  stable, 
a  carriage-house,  and  a  bath-house.' 

'  The  bath-house  is  always  sepaiattd  from  the  house,  and  consists 
generally  of  an  anteroom  iiml  tin-  main  diamber,  witii  slielves 
of   different    heights.      The   steam    is    generated    i>\    throwing   coM 

213 


Ml.MOlirs   OF  A   Sin)RTSMAX 

Kai'li  loo -house  stood  apart  by  itself:  neither 
Wnvv  loimd  abcnit  iioi-  gate  was  visible.  ]My 
coaehiuaii  halted  in  perplexity  at  the  half-rotten 
and  ehoked-up  well.  Near  the  carriage-house, 
several  gaunt  and  shaggy  hare-hounds  were  tear- 
ing a  dtad  horse, — probably  Orbassan;  one  of 
theni  raised  his  bloody  muzzle,  gave  a  hurried 
yelp,  and  began  again  to  gnaw  at  the  bared  ribs. 
Heside  the  horse  stood  a  voung  fellow  of  seven- 
teen,  with  a  bloated  and  sallow  face,  dressed  as  a 
page,  and  with  bare  feet:  he  was  pompously 
watehing  the  dogs,  which  were  entrusted  to  his 
oversight,  and  now  and  then  he  lashed  the  most 
greedy  of  them  with  a  long  whip. 

"  Is  the  master  at  home?  " — I  asked. 

■  Why.  the  Lord  only  knows!  " — 'replied  the 
voung  fellow. —  "  Knock." 

I  sprang  out  of  my  drozhky  and  walked  to  the 
])()i'eh  ol'  the  wing. 

'I'hi'  dwelling  of  ]Mr.  TchertopkhanofF  pre- 
senled  a  very  sorry  aspect:  the  beams  had  turned 
black,  and  protruded  themselves  forward  "  in  a 
paunch,"  iiie  chimney  had  tumbled  down,  the 
corners  were  ruined  with  dampness,  and  were  tot- 
tering, the  tiny,  dim,  dark-blue  windows  gazed 
foi'th  ',\ith  indescribable  sourness  from  beneath 
the  shaggy  roof,  which  sagged  forward:  some 
aged    street-walkers    have    eyes    like    that.       I 

uatrr  on   stones   hciti'd   to  a   plow   wlicn    a   liatli   is   wanted.      Peter 
the  Creat,  in  some  of  his  haths,  api)ro])ria1ely  used  eaiinoii-balls. 

TaANSI.A'l-OK. 

214 


TCHERTOPKIIAXOFF 

knocked;  no  one  responded.  But  1  heard  these 
words  sharply  uttered  on  the  otlier  side  of  tlie 
door : 

"A,   B,   V;'    come   now,   you   fool," — said   a 

hoarse  voice;— "A,   B,   V,   G Not   that 

way!    G,  D,  E,  E!  .  .  .  .  Come  now,  you  fool !  " 

I  knocked  again. 

The  same  voice  sliouted: — "  Come  in, — who  's 
there?  .   .  .   ." 

I  entered  a  bare  little  anteroom,  and  through 
the  open  dooi-  I  descried  Tcliertopkhanoff  liim- 
self.  Clad  in  a  dirty  Bukhara  dressing-gown 
and  full  trousers,  with  a  red  fez  on  his  head, 
he  was  sitting  at  a  table,  gripping  the  muzzle 
of  a  young  poodle  with  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  holding  a  bit  of  bread  directly  above 
his  nose. 

"  Ah!  " — he  said  with  dignity,  without  stirring 
from  his  seat: — "  I  am  very  glad  of  your  visit. 
Pray  take  a  seat.  I  'm  bothering  over  Venzor  - 
here,  as  vou  see.  .  .  .  Tikhon  Ivanitch," — he 
added,  raising  his  voice: — "please  come  hither. 
A  visitor  has  arrived." 

"  Immediately,  immediately," — replied  Ti- 
khon Ivanitch  from  the  adjoining  room. — 
"  Masha,  give  me  my  neckerchief." 

Tcliertopkhanoff  again  turned  his  attention  to 
Venzor,  and  laid  the  bit  of  bread  on  his  nose.     I 

^  The    Russian    alphabet    runs    in    the    order    here    indicated. — ■ 
Translator. 

^  Probal)ly  intended    for   Windsor. — Translatob. 

215 


M  KM  OIKS   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

^laiK't'd  al)()iit  inc.  There  was  absolutely  no  fur- 
niture ill  tlie  room,  with  the  exception  of  a 
NNarpnl  extensioii-tahle  on  thirteen  legs  of  iiii- 
e(jual  leniith.  and  lour  clila])idate(l  straw-seated 
chairs:  the  walls,  which  had  been  whitewashed 
long,  long  ago,  with  blue  spots  in  the  shape  of 
stars,  hail  peeled  off  in  many  places;  between 
the  windows  hung  a  cracked  and  dimmed  little 
mirror  in  a  huge  frame  of  imitation  mahogany. 
In  the  corners  stood  Turkish  pipes  and  guns; 
from  the  ceiling  depended  thick,  l)lack  spiders' 
webs. 

"  A,  15,  V,  G,  D," — enunciated  Tchertopkha- 
noff  slowly,  then  suddenly  cried  fierceh': — "E! 
E!  E!  .  .".  .  What  a  stupid  beast!  .  .\  .  E!" 
Rut  the  ill-starred  poodle  only  trembled,  and 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  open  his  mouth; 
he  continued  to  sit  there,  with  his  tail  painfully 
tucked  between  his  legs,  and,  contorting  his  muz- 
zle, blinked  dejectedly  and  screwed  u])  his  eyes, 
as  though  he  were  saying  to  himself:  "  As  you 
like,  of  course !  " 

"  Come,  eat,  dost  hear!   Take!  " — repeated  the 
irrepressible  s(]uire. 

"  You  have  frightened  him," — I  remarked. 

"  Well,  then  away  Avith  him!  " 

He  gave  him  a  kick.     The  poor  animal  rose 

(juietly,  dropped  the  bread  from  his  nose,  and 

went  off,  on  tiptoe  as  it  were,  to  the  anteroom, 

deeply  wounded.     And,  in  fact,  a  strange  man 

216 


TCHEKTOPKIIAXOFF 

liad  arrived  for  the  first  time,  and  tliat  was  the 
way  he  was  heing  treated! 

The  door  from  the  adjoining  room  creaked 
cantionsly,  and  ^Nlr.  Xedopiiiskin  entered,  amia- 
bly bowing  and  smihng. 

I  rose  and  mude  my  boAv. 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,  don't  disturb  your- 
self,"— he  stammered. 

We  took  our  seats.  Tehertopkhanoff  with- 
drew into  the  next  room. 

"Have  you  been  long  in  our  parts?" — said 
Nedopiiiskin  in  a  soft  voice,  discreetly  coughing 
behind  liis  hand,  and,  out  of  a  sense  of  propriety, 
keeping  his  fingers  in  front  of  his  lips. 

"  This  is  the  second  month." 

"  Just  so,  sir." 

We  were  silent  for  a  while. 

"  We  are  having  fine  weather  just  now," — 
went  on  Nedopiiiskin,  and  looked  at  me  with 
gratitude,  as  thougli  the  w^eather  depended  upon 
me: — "the  grain  is  thriving  wonderfully,  one 
may  say." 

I  inclined  my  head,  in  token  of  assent.  Again 
we  were  silent  for  a  space. 

"  Pantelei  Eremyeitch  ran  down  two  grey 
hares  yesterday," — began  Xedopiiiskin  again, 
with  an  effort,  being  obviously  desirous  of  enli- 
vening the  conversation: — "Yes,  sir,  two  ex- 
tremely large  grey  hares." 

"  Has  jNIr.  Tehertopkhanoff  good  dogs?  " 

217 


MKMOIHS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

•  Wry  R'liiarkable  dogs,  sir!" — returned  Xe- 
dopii'iskin,  with  pleasure: — "  the  best  in  the  Gov- 
eriinient,  1  may  say."  (He  moved  up  closer  to 
me.)  *'  Hut  it  s  a  I'aet,  sir!  Pantelei  Eremye- 
iteh  is  that  sort  of  a  man!  Xo  sooner  does  he 
wish  I'or  a  thing — no  sooner  does  he  take  a  thing 
into  his  liead — the  first  you  know,  there  it  is  ac- 
e(iiiij)hshed,  everything  is  fairly  seething,  sir. 
Pantelei  Eremveitch,  1  must  tell  you  .  .  .  ." 

'IV'hertopkhanoff  entered  the  room.  X'^edo- 
pii'iskin  grinned,  fell  silent,  and  indicated  him  to 
me  with  his  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say:  "  There, 
convince  yourself."  We  began  to  chat  about 
hunting. 

''  \\\)uld  you  like  to  have  me  show  you  my 
lea,sh  of  hounds?" — TchertopkhanofF  asked  me, 
and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  called 
Karp. 

There  entered  the  room  a  robust  young  fellow 
in  a  nankeen  kaftan  green  in  hue  with  a  sky-blue 
collar  and  livery  buttons. 

"  Order  Fomka," — said  TchertopkhanofF  ab- 
rui)tly: — "to  fetch  in  Ammalat  and  Saiga  (Ga- 
zelle), and  in  proper  order,  dost  understand?  " 

l\ai-p  grinned  to  the  full  extent  of  his  mouth, 
emitted  a  vague  sound,  and  left  the  room.  Foma 
made  his  appearance,  with  his  hair  brushed,  his 
belt  dra^vn  tight,  booted,  and  with  the  dogs.  I, 
out  of  [)ropriety,  admired  the  stupid  animals  (all 
hare-hounds  are  extremely  stupid).     Tchertop- 

218 


TC  HEin  UPK  H ANOFF 

kluinoff  spat  straight  into  Aninialats  nostrils, 
which,  however,  apparently,  did  not  afford  the 
dog  tlie  shghtcst  pleasnre.  Xedopiuskin  ca- 
ressed iVmniahit  from  behind  also.  Again  we 
began  to  chat.  Tchei'topkhanoff  gradually  grew 
thoronghly  mild,  and  ceased  to  bear  himself  like 
a  cock  and  to  snort;  the  expression  of  his  face  un- 
derwent a  change.  He  glanced  at  me  and  at  Ne- 
dopiuskin. 

"  Eh !  "  —  he  suddenly  exclaimed :  —  "  Why 
should  she  sit  there  alone?  Masha!  hey  there, 
Masha!  come  hither!  " 

Some  one  stirred  in  the  adjoining  room,  but 
there  was  no  reply. 

"  ^la-a-asha," — repeated  Tchertopkhanoff  ca- 
ressingly:— "Come  hither.  There's  nothing 
wrong,  have  no  fear." 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  I  beheld  a  woman 
of  twenty,  tall  and  slender,  with  a  swarthy  gipsy 
face,  yellowish-brown  eyes,  and  hair  as  black  as 
pitch ;  her  large,  white  teeth  fairly  glittered  from 
beneath  her  full  red  lips.  She  wore  a  white 
gown;  a  light  blue  shawl,  fastened  close  around 
tlie  throat  with  a  golden  pin,  half  covered  her 
slender,  high-bred  hands. 

"  Here,  let  me  commend  her  to  your  favour," 
— said  Pantelei  Eremyeitch: — "  she  's  not  exactly 
mv  wife,  but  the  same  as  a  wife." 

^lasha  flushed  slightly  and  smiled  in  coni'u- 
sion.     I  made  her  a  \'ery  low  bow.     She  pleased 

219 


MKMOIHS   OF   A    SPORTSMAX 

nie  •'^rcath-.  Tier  thin,  a(|uiliiu'  nose,  witli  its 
(iptii.  lialf-transpaiviil  nostrils,  the  hold  line 
of  \wv  arching-  evehrows,  her  pale,  slightly 
sunken  cheeks, — all  tlie  features  of  her  face, 
expressed  way\\ai-d  passion  and  reckless  daring. 
From  ])eneath  (1r'  coils  of  lier  hair,  down  npon 
her  hroad  neck,  ran  two  small  tufts  of  shin- 
ing littk'  hairs — a  token  of  good  ])lood  and  of 
strength. 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  sat  down.  I 
did  not  wish  to  heighten  her  confusion,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  to  Tchertopkhanoff.  ]Masha  turned 
lier  head  slightly,  and  began  to  dart  sidelong, 
stealthy,  wild,  swift  glances  at  me.  Her  gaze 
Hashed  out  like  the  sting  of  a  serpent.  Xedo- 
])iuskin  sat  down  beside  her  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  her  ear.  She  smiled  again.  When  she 
smiled,  she  slightly  Avrinkled  up  her  nose  and  ele- 
vated her  upper  lip,  which  imparted  to  her  face 
an  expression  which  was  not  exactly  that  of  a  cat, 
nor  yet  that  of  a  lion 

"  Oh  yes,  thou  art  a  '  touch-me-not,'  " — I 
thought,  in  my  turn  stealthily  inspecting  her 
willowy  form,  her  sunken  chest,  and  angular, 
agile  movements. 

"  Well,  now,  Masha,"^ — asked  Tchertopkha- 
nofF: — "  Must  the  visitor  be  treated  to  some  sort 
of  refreshments,  hey?  " 

"  We  liave  some  preserves," — she  replied. 

"  Well,  fetch  Jiitlier  the  preserves,  and  some 

220 


TCIIKRTOPKIIANOFF 

vodka  too,  by  llie  way.  And  listen,  Maslia," — lie 
shouted  after  Iier: — "  fetcli  thy  guitar  also." 

"  What  's  the  guitar  for?    1  won't  sing." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it." 

"  Kh,  nonsense,  thou  wilt  feel  like  it,  if  .  .  ." 

"  If  what?  " — asked  JNlasha,  swiftly  eontract- 
ing  her  brows. 

"  If  thou  art  asked," — Tchertopkhanolf'  eoni- 
pleted  his  phrase,  not  without  eonfusion. 

"All!" 

She  left  the  room,  speedily  returned  with  the 
preserves  and  the  vodka,  and  again  seated  herself 
by  the  window.  The  furrow  was  still  visible  on 
her  forehead;  both  her  eyebrows  kept  rising  and 
falhng,  hke  the  feelers  of  a  wasp.  .  .  .  Have  you 
observed,  reader,  what  a  vicious  face  the  wasp 
has?  "Well,"  I  said  to  myself,  "there's  going 
to  be  a  thunderstorm."  The  conversation  would 
not  go.  Nedopiuskin  became  absolutely  dumb 
and  smiled  constrainedly;  TchertopkhanofF 
puffed,  and  flushed,  and  protruded  his  eyes;  I 

was    preparing   to   take    my   departure 

when,  suddenly,  Masha  rose  to  her  feet,  threw 
open  the  window  with  one  movement,  tlirust  out 
her  head,  and  screamed  angrily  to  a  passing  peas- 
ant-woman: "Aksinya!"  The  woman  gave  a 
start,  tried  to  turn  round,  but  slipped  and  fell 
heavily  to  the  ground.  JNIasha  threw  herself 
backward,  and  burst  into  a  ringing  laugli ;  Tcher 

221 


M  KM  OIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

t()j)klK'tiK)tt"  also  began  to  laugh;  Xedopiiiskin 
sciuealt'il  with  delight.  We  shook  out  our  feath- 
ers.   The  thunilerstorni  had  dissolved  in  one  flash 

ol'  liuhlninii' the  air  had  eleared. 

Half  an  hour  later,  no  one  would  have  recog- 
nised us:  we  were  chattering  and  frolicking  like 
children.  Masha  was  playing  the  maddest  pranks 
of  all,  Tchertopkhanoff  was  fairly  devouring  her 
with  his  eyes.  Her  face  had  grown  pale,  her  nos- 
trils were  dilated,  her  glance  blazed  and  darkened 
at  one  and  the  same  time.  The  savage  was  be- 
ginning to  rise  in  her.  Xedopiiiskin  waddled 
after  her  on  his  short,  thick  legs,  like  a  drake  after 
a  duck.  Kven  Venzor  crawled  out  from  under 
the  wall-bench  in  the  anteroom,  stood  for  a  wiiile 
on  the  threshold,  gazed  at  us,  and  suddenly  began 
to  lea})  and  bark.  ^lasha  fluttered  out  into  the 
adjoining  room,  brought  her  guitar,  flung  the 
shawl  from  her  shoulders,  briskly  took  a  seat, 
I'aised  her  head,  and  struck  up  a  gipsy  song.  Her 
voice  tinkled  and  (piivered  like  a  tiny  cracked 
glass  bell,  it  flared  up  and  died  away.  ...  It 
l)ro(liiced  a  pleasing  yet  painful  sensation  in 
one's  heart. — "  A'l,  burn  away,  spread  out!" 
.  .  .  Tchertopkhanoff*  began  to  dance.  jNIasha 
writhed  all  over,  like  a  piece  of  birch-bark  in  the 
fire:  her  slender  Angers  flew^  rapidly  (ner  the 
guitar,  her  swarthy  neck  heaved  slowly  under  her 
necklace  consisting  of  a  double  row  of  amber 
beads.     Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  stopped  short, 

222 


TCHERTOPKIIAXOFF 

merely  shrugged  lier  shoulders,  and  fidgeted 
about  on  her  seat,  while  Nedopiuskin  wagged 
his  head  like  a  porcelain  Chinaman; — then  she 
began  to  warble  again,  like  a  madwoman,  draw- 
ing up  her  figure  and  protruding  her  chest,  and 
again  Tcliertopkhanoff  began  to  squat  down  to 
the  ground  and  leaj)  u])  to  the  very  ceiling,' 
spinning  round  like  a  peg-top  and  shouting: 
"  Faster!  "  .  .  .  . 

"  Faster,  faster,  faster,  faster!  " — chimed  in 
Nedopiiiskin,  volubly. 

I^ate  at  night  I  took  my  departure  from  Bez- 
sonovo.  .  .  . 

^  These  are  figures,  so  to  speak,  in  the  favourite  Russian 
dance.  —  Translator, 


223 


IX 

THE  END  OF  TCHERTOPKHANOFF 


Two  years  after  my  visit,  Pantelei  Eremyeitch's 
calamities — precisely  that,  calamities  —  began. 
He  had  experienced  unpleasantnesses,  failures, 
and  even  misfortunes  before  that,  but  he  had  paid 
no  attention  to  them,  and  had  "  reigned "  as 
hitherto.  The  first  calamity  which  overtook  him 
was  for  him  the  most  acute  of  all:  Masha  left  him. 
A\'hat  it  was  that  made  her  abandon  his  roof, 
to  wliieh,  apparently,  she  had  become  so  thor- 
ouuhlv  accustomed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  sav. 
Tchertopkhcinoff,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  cher- 
ished the  conviction  that  the  cause  of  ^lasha's 
treachery  was  a  certain  youthful  neighbour,  a  re- 
tired captain  of  ulilans,  nicknamed  YafF,  who, 
according  to  Pantelei  Kremyeitch's  assertion,  had 
fascinated  her  merely  bv  incessantly  twirling  his 
moustache,  using  pomatum  in  excessive  (pianti- 
ties,  and  smiling  affectedly  to  a  very  decided  de- 
gree ;  but  we  must  assume,  rather,  that  the  roving 
gipsy  ])lood  which  flowed  in  jNIashas  veins  had 
asserted  itself.     At  any  rate,  one  fine  summer 

224 


THE   END   OF   TC  UEK  lOlMvIlANOFF 

evening,  Maslui  took  liersell'  off  from  Tcherlop- 
khiinoff's  house,  after  having  made  up  a  small 
bundle  of  some  rags  of  elothing. 

For  three  days  l)efore  that  she  had  sat  in  a 
corner,  bent  double  and  huddling  closely  against 
the  wall,  like  a  wounded  fox, — and  not  a  word 
would  she  utter  to  any  one,  but  merely  rolled  her 
eyes  about,  and  mused,  and  twitched  her  brows, 
and  displayed  her  teeth  in  a  faint  grin,  and  moved 
her  liands  aliout  as  though  she  were  wrapping 
herself  up.  This  "  quiet  fit  "  had  come  over  her 
on  previous  occasions,  but  had  never  lasted  long; 
Tchertopkhanoff  was  aware  of  this, — and  conse- 
quently Mas  not  worried  himself,  neither  did  he 
worry  her.  But  when,  on  his  return  from  his  ken- 
nels,— where,  according  to  the  statement  of  his 
whipper-in,  his  last  two  greyhounds  were 
"  moulting," — he  met  a  maid-servant,  who  in  a 
trembling  voice  announced  to  him  that  ^larya 
Akinfievna  had  ordered  her  to  present  her  com- 
pliments to  him,  and  to  say  that  she  wished  him 
everything  that  was  good,  but  would  never  return 
to  him  again — Tchertopkhanoff,  after  si)inning 
round  a  couple  of  times  on  tlie  spot  where  he 
stood  and  emitting  a  hoarse  roar,  immediately 
dashed  off  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitive,  catching  up 
his  pistol  by  the  way. 

He  overtook  her  a  couple  of  versts  from  his 
house,  beside  a  birch  coi)pice,  on  the  highway 
leading  to  the  county  town.     The  sun  hung  low 

225 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

above  the  horizon,  and  cvervtliing  round  about — 
the  trees,  the  grass,  and  the  earth — suddenly 
turned  erinison. 

"To  Vafi'!  to  Vaff'!"— moaned  Tchertopkha- 
lioil".  as  soon  as  he  espied  Masha: — "to  VafF!  " 
— lie  repeated,  as  lie  rushed  up  to  her,  stumbling 
at  almost  every  step. 

Masha  halted  and  turned  her  face  toward  him. 
She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  light,  and  appeared 
com])letely  Iilack,  as  though  carved  out  of  dark 
wood.  Onlv  the  whites  of  her  eyes  stood  out  like 
silver  almonds,  while  the  eyes  themselves — the 
])upils — grew  darker  than  ever. 

She  tossed  her  bundle  aside,  and  folded  her 
arms. 

"  She  has  set  off  for  YafF,  the  good-for- 
nothing  hussy!  " — repeated  Tchertopkhanoff,  at- 
tempting to  seize  her  by  the  shoulder; — but  the 
glance  he  encountered  from  her  intimidated  him, 
and  made  him  stop  short  on  the  spot. 

"  I  have  not  started  for  ]Mr.  YafF,  Pantelei 
Kremyeitch,"^ — replied  ]Masha  in  a  (juiet,  even 
tone: — "  onlv,  I  cannot  live  with  vou  anv  longer." 

"  AVhy  canst  not  thou  live  with  me^  Wby  so? 
Have  I  offended  thee  in  any  way?  " 

Miislia  shook  her  head. — "  You  have  not  of- 
fended me  in  any  wa}^  Pantelei  Eremyeitch,  only 
I  have  begun  to  languish  at  your  house.  ...  I 
thank  voii  for  the  past,  but  stay  I  cannot — 
no!" 

226 


THE   END   OF   TCIIEIU OPKH AXOFF 

Tchertopkluinoff  was  cli unfounded;  he  even 
smote  his  hps  with  his  hands,  and  gave  a  leaj). 

"  How  so^  Thou  hast  Hved  on  and  on,  and  hasu 
experienced  nothing  but  pleasure  and  traiujuil- 
lity — and,  all  of  a  sudden,  thou  hast  taken  to  |)in- 
ing!  '  Herewith,'  says  she,  '  I  11  abandon  him! ' 
She  takes  and  throws  a  kerchief  on  her  head — 
and  off  she  goes.  She  has  received  every  respect, 
just  as  much  as  a  born  lady.  .  .  ." 

"  I  coidd  have  dispensed  with  that,  at  least," — 
interrupted  JNIasha. 

"  Why  couldst  thou  have  dispensed  with  it? 
From  a  gipsy  stroller,  thou  hast  got  into  the  sta- 
tion of  a  born  lady — yes:  thou  didst  not  care  for 
it^  ^Vlly  not,  thou  base-born  miscreant?  Is  tliat 
credible?  There's  treachery  concealed  here, — 
treachery !  " 

Again  he  began  to  foam  at  the  mouth. 

"  There  is  no  treachery  whatever  in  mv 
thoughts,  and  there  has  been  none," — said  Masha 
in  her  drawling,  distinct  voice; — "  but  1  have  al- 
ready told  you:  I  was  seized  with  a  pining." 

"iNIasha!" — cried  Tchertopkhanoff,  and  smote 
his  breast  with  his  clenched  fist: — "  come,  stop  it, 
enough,  thou  hast  tortured  me  ...  .  come, 
enough  of  this.  ^Vnd  by  God!  only  thin.k  what 
Tisha  will  say;  thou  mightest,  at  least,  have  pity 
on  him !  " 

"  Give  my  regards  to  Tikhon  Iviinitch,  and  tell 

him  .  .  ." 

227 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SPORTS^NIAX 

'rc-lR-rt()j)kli;ui()f!'  l)i'an(lishe(l  his  arms. — "  But 
!i().  thou  art  l\in«>- — tliou  \\  ilt  not  <rn  away!  Yaff 
sliall  wait  for  thee  iu  vaiu!" 

■'  M  r.  Ydit' — "  Mjisha  made  an  effort  to 
say.   .   .    . 

■■  ' Mis-ftr  Yaff,"  forsooth, ''^ — TehertopkluinofF 
mimicked  her. — "  He  's  a  sly  dog,  if  ever  there 
was  one.  a  swindler — and  he  has  the  ])liiz  of  an 
ape. 

For  lull  half  an  liour  did  Tehertopkhanoff 
eontend  with  .Masha.  Now  he  stepped  up  close 
to  lier,  again  lie  sj)rang'  away,  now  he  brandislied 
his  liands  at  her,  again  he  made  her  reverences  to 
lier  girdle,  weeping  and  cursing.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't," — Maslu:  kept  reiterating: — "  I  'm 
so  dejected.   ...   I  'm  tortured   witli   boredom." 

Jiittk'  hy  little  her  face  assumed  such  an  in- 
(hlferent,  almost  sleej)y  exj^ression,  that  Tcher- 
toj)khanolt'  asked  her  whether  she  had  been 
drugged  with  stramonium. 

"  'T  is  })oredom,"— she  said,  i'or  the  tenth  time. 

"Well,  now,  what  if  I  kill  thee?  "—he  sud- 
denly shouted,  and  pulled  the  23istol  from  his 
]K)cket. 

Masha  smiled;  her  face  became  animated. 

"  \Vhat  thenf  Kill  me,  Pantelei  Eremyeitch: 
as  you  please;  but  as  for  returning, — I  simply 
won't  do  it." 

"Thou  wilt  not  return?" — Tchertopkhanoff 
cocked  his  pistol. 

228 


THE   END   OF   TCIIKRTOPKIIAXOFF 

"  I  will  not,  iii\'  (Icai-  lilllc  dove.  I  won't  re- 
turn  as  long  as  I  live.    jNly  word  is  firm." 

Teliertopklidnoff  suddenly  thrust  the  pistol 
into  her  hand,  and  squatted  down  on  the  ground. 

"  Well,  then  do  thou  kill  met  without  thee  1  do 
not  wish  to  live.  I  have .  become  abhorrent  to 
thee, — and  everything  has  become  abhorrent  to 
me. 

jNlasha  bent  down,  picked  up  her  bundle,  threw 
the  pist(^l  on  the  grass,  with  the  muzzle  turned 
away  from  Tchertopkhanoff,  and  moved  up  close 
to  him. 

"  Ekh,  my  deai-  little  dove,  why  dost  thou 
grieve  without  cause:"  Uost  not  thou  know  us 
gipsy  women?  'T  is  our  character,  our  custom. 
If  the  yearning  for  departure  begins  to  breed, 
and  summons  the  soul  to  distant,  foreign  i>arts, — 
why  remain?  Uo  thou  remember  thy  ^lasha, — 
such  another  friend  thou  wilt  never  find, — and  I 
shall  not  forget  thee,  my  falcon; — but  my  life 
and  thine  together  is  at  an  end!  " 

"  I  have  loved  thee,  ^Masha," — murmured 
TchertopkhiinofF  into  his  fingers,  wherewith  he 
had  covered  his  face.  .  . 

"  And  I  have  loved  thee,  dear  friend,  Pantelei 
Eremyeitch!  " 

"  I  have  loved  thee,  I  do  love  thee  madly,  un- 
boundedly,— and  when  I  think  now  that  thou  art 
al)andoning  me  thus,  for  no  cause,  without  rliyme 
or  reason,  and  art  setting  out  to  wander  about  the 

229 


MKMOIKS   OF  A   SPOliTSMAX 

NVDild,  well,  tlitn  I  l)egii)  tc  imagine  that  were 
I  not  an  11  111  lap  J  )y  beggar,  thou  wouldst  not  have 
cast  mv  off!  " 

Masha  nicrcly  laut^iied  at  these  words. 

"  \\'li\ ,  I  was  a  ])enniless  vagrant  myself  when 
thou  didst  take  nie  in!" — she  said,  and  gave 
Tchertopkhanofr  a  flourishing  slap  on  the 
shoulder. 

He  sj)rang  to  his  feet. 

"  A\'ell,  at  least  take  some  money  from  me, — 
liow  canst  thou  go  off  so,  without  a  farthing? 
lint  best  oi'  all:  kill  me!  I'm  talking  sense  to 
thee:  kill  me  on  the  spot!  " 

Again  Mjisha  shook  her  head. — "  Kill  thee? 
But  what  are  people  sent  to  Siberia  for,  my  dear 
little  dove?" 

Tchertopkhanoff  shuddered.—"  So  't  is  only 
for  that,  out  of  fear  of  the  gallevs,  that  thou  wilt 
not." 

Again  he  fell  prone  on  the  grass. 

^Iiisha  stood  over  him  in  silence. — "  I  'm  sorry 
for  thee,  Pantelei  Eremyeiteh," — she  said,  with  a 

sigh: — "thou   art   a   good   man but 

there  's  no  help  for  it:  farewell!  " 

She  turned  away,  and  took  a  couple  of  steps. 
Xight  had  already  begun  to  close  in,  and  dim 
shadows  were  Ixiginning  to  glide  up  from  all. 
(piarters.  Tchertopkhanoff  rose  briskly  to  his 
feet  and  grasped  ]Masha  by  both  elbo^vs  from 
behind. 

•J30 


THE   END   OF   TCIIEHTOPKHAXOFF 

"  So  thou  art  going,  serpents    To  VafF!  " 
"Farewell!" — repeated     ^Nlasha    signifieantly 
and  sharply,  wrenched  herself  free,  and  walked 

away. 

Tchertopkluinoff'  stared  after  her,  ran  to  the 
spot  where  tlie  })istol  lay,  seized  it,  took  aim,  and 
fired.  .  .  .  l-Jnt  hefore  he  pidled  the  trigger  he 
threw  liis  hand  upward;  the  bullet  whistled  past 
over  JNlasha's  head.  She  darted  a  glance  at  him 
over  her  shoulder,  without  pausing, — and  pro- 
ceeded on  her  way,  swaying  her  hips  as  she 
walked,  as  though  to  provoke  him. 

He  covered  his  face^ — and  set  off  on  a  run.  .  .  . 

But  before  he  had  run  fifty  paces,  he  came  to  a 
sudden  halt,  as  tliough  rooted  to  the  spot.  A  fa- 
miliar, a  too-familiar  voice  reached  his  ears.  Ma- 
sha  was  singing.  "  Life  young,  life  charming," 
— she  sang;  every  sound  seemed  prolonged  in 
the  evening  air — wailing  and  resonant.  Tcher- 
topkhanoff  lent  an  ear.  The  voice  retreated  fur- 
ther and  further;  now  it  died  away,  again  it 
floated  to  him  in  a  barely  audible,  but  still  burn- 


ing wave. 


She  's  doing  that  to  irritate  me,"  thouglit 
Tchertopkhanoff ;  but  immediately  added,  with  a 
groan:  "  Okh,  no!  she  is  taking  leave  of  me  for- 
ever; " — and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

On  the  following  da\%  he  ])resented  himself  at 
the  quarters  of  ^Ir.  Yaff,  who.  like  a  true  man  of 

231 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

the  world,  not  liking  the  solitiulc  of  the  country, 
liad  removed  to  the  county  town,—"  nearer  to  the 
vouno-  ladies,"  as  he  expressed  it.  Tchertopkha- 
iiott'  did  not  find  Vaff;  the  latter,  according  to 
the  statement  of  his  valet,  had  set  out  for  Mos- 
cow on  the  i)receding  day. 

"Exactly  so!" — exclaimed  Tchertopklianoff 
in  a  fury:—''  it  was  a  plot  between  them;  she  has 
eloped  with  him  ....  but  wait  a  bit!" 

He  forced  his  way  into  the  study  of  the  young 
cavalry  captain,  despite  the  valet's  opposition. 
In  the  study,  over  the  divan,  hung  a  portrait  of 
the  master  of  the  house,  in  his  uhlan  uniform, 
painted  in  oils. — "  Ah,  there  thou  art,  thou  tail- 
less ape!" — thundered  Tchertopkhanoff,  as  he 
sprang  upon  the  divan, — and  smiting  the  tightly- 
stretched  canvas  ^^  ith  his  fist,  he  broke  a  huge  hole 
in  it. 

"  Sav  to  thv  rascally  master," — he  said,  ad- 
dressini>[  the  valet, — "  that  in  default  of  his  own 
disgusting  phiz,  nobleman  Tchertopkhanoff  has 
disfigured  his  painted  phiz;  and  if  he  desires  satis- 
faction from  me,  he  knows  whei-e  to  find  noble- 
man Tchertopkhanoff! — If  he  does  not,  I  will 
find  him!  I  11  hunt  out  the  dastardly  ape  at  the 
bottom  (jf  the  sea!  " 

As  he  uttered  these  w^ords,  Tcherto])klianofF 
sprang  from  the  divan  and  withdrew  in  triumph. 

Rut  Captain  Vaff  did  not  demand  any  satis- 
faction from  him, — he  did  not  even  encounter  him 

232 


THE   END   OF   TC  TTEirrOPTCTlAXOFF 

anywhere, — and  Tchertopklidnoff  did  not  divam 
of  looking  up  his  enemy,  and  no  scan(hd  resulted 
from  this  affair.  xMasha  herself  soon  afterwai'd 
disappeared  without  leaving  ii  trace.  Tehertop- 
khanofi'  would  have  liked  to  take  to  drink;  he 
"  saw  the  error  of  his  ways,"  however.  But  at 
this  point,  a  second  calamity  overtook  him. 


II 

Namely:  his  bosom  friend,  Tikhon  Ivanitch  Ne- 
dopiuskin,  expired.  The  latter's  health  had  be- 
gun to  fail  tw  o  years  previous  to  his  death :  he  had 
begun  to  suffer  from  asthma,  was  incessantly 
falling  asleep,  and,  on  waking,  he  was  slow  in 
coming  to  himself:  the  county  physician  declared 
that  he  had  had  slight  strokes  of  apoplexy.  Dur- 
ing the  three  days  which  preceded  the  departure 
of  JNIasha, — those  three  days  w^ien  she  had  been 
"  pining,"^ — Nedopiuskin  had  been  lying  in  bed  at 
his  own  home  in  Bezselendyeevka :  he  had  caught 
a  heavy  cold.  The  shock  of  ^Nlasha's  behaviour 
was  all  the  more  unexpected  to  him:  he  was  al- 
most more  deeply  affected  by  it  than  even  Tcher- 
topkhanoff  himself.  Thanks  to  the  gentleness 
and  timidity  of  his  character,  he  displayed  no 
emotion,  save  tender  sympathy  for  his  friend,  and 
pained  surprise  ....  but  everything  within 
him  broke  and  relaxed.  "  She  has  taken  the  soul 
out  of  me,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  as  he  sat  on 

233 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

his  favourite  little  couch  covered  with  oiled  cloth, 
and  twiddled  his  fingers.  Kven  when  Tchertop- 
kluinol!"  recovered,  he,  Xedo})iuskin,  did  not  re- 
cover,^ — and  continued  to  feel  that  "  there  was  a 
void  within  hini." — "  Right  here," — he  was  wont 
to  say,  })ointing  to  the  centre  of  his  hreast,  above 
tlie  stomach.  lie  dragged  on  thus  until  the  win- 
ter. His  asthma  was  relieved  by  the  first  cold 
weather,  but  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  visited  not 
by  a  small  shock  of  apoplexy,  but  by  a  real  one. 
He  did  not  immediately  lose  consciousness;  he 
could  still  recognise  TchertopkhanofF,  and  even  to 
liis  friend's  despairing  cry:  "  How  comes  it  that 
thou,  Tisha,  art  leaving  me  without  my  per- 
mission, just  like  ]Masha?  "  replied  with  falter- 
ing tongue:  —  "But,  P  ....  a  ....  lei 
K  .  .  .  e  .  .  .  yeitcli  .  .  .  I  al  .  .  .  ays 
....  have  ....  mind  ....  ed  ...  .  you  .  .  ." 
This  did  not  prevent  his  dying  the  same  day,  how- 
ever, before  the  arrival  of  the  county  physician, 
for  whom,  at  the  sight  of  his  corpse,  which  was 
barely  cold,  there  was  nothing  left  to  do  except, 
with  melancholy  consciousness  of  the  transitori- 
ness  of  all  things  earthly,  to  request  "  a  little 
vodka  and  dried  sturgeon."  Tikhon  Ivanitch 
had  b'j(iueathed  his  property,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  to  his  "  most  respected  benefactor,  Pan- 
telei  Eremyeitch  TchertopklianofF  " ;  but  it  did 
not  do  his  most  respected  benefactor  much  good, 
for  it  was  speedily  sold  at  public  auction, — partly 

234. 


THE   END   OF   TCIIEKTOPKIIAXOFF 

in  order  to  defray  the  expenses  of  a  mortuary 
nioniinient,  a  statue,  wliich  TehertopkhanoiF — 
(evidently,  a  cliaracteristic  of  his  father's  was 
making  itself  felt!) — had  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
erect  over  the  ashes  of  his  friend.  This  statue, 
which  was  intended  to  represent  an  angel  in 
prayer,  he  had  ordered  from.  Moscow;  but  the 
commissioner  who  had  been  recommended  to  him, 
taking  into  consideration  the  fact  that  expert 
judges  of  sculpture  are  rare  in  the  iin*al  districts, 
had  sent  him,  instead  of  the  angel,  a  statue  of  the 
goddess  Flora,  which  for  many  years  had  adorned 
one  of  the  neglected  parks  in  the  vicinity  of  ^los- 
cow  of  the  Empress  Katherine  II's  day; — as  he, 
the  agent,  had  obtained  the  said  statue — which 
was  an  elegant  one,  in  the  rococo  taste,  with 
plump  little  hands,  curling  locks,  and  a  garland 
of  roses  around  its  bare  bosom  and  curved  figure 
— for  nothing.  Consequently,  to  this  day,  the 
mythological  goddess  stands,  with  one  foot  grace- 
fully uplifted,  over  the  grave  of  Tikhon  Ivan- 
itch,  and,  with  a  genuine  Pompadour-like  grim- 
ace, surveys  the  calves  and  sheep,  those  inevitable 
visitors  of  our  cemeteries,  which  roam  round 
about  her. 

Ill 


After  losing  his  faithful  friend,  Tchertopkha- 
nofF  again  took  to  drink,  and  this  time  far  more 
seriously.     His  affairs  were  completely  on   the 

235 


.MEMOIRS   OF  A    SrOKTSMAN 

downward  path,  'riicrc  was  nothing  lel'l  to  hunt, 
liis  hist  slender  resources  were  exhausted,  his  last 
wretched  serfs  had  fled.  A  reign  of  absolute  iso- 
lation set  in  for  Pantelei  Eremyeitch:  there  was 
not  a  soul  with  whom  he  could  exchange  a  word, 
much  less  any  one  to  whom  he  could  unburden  his 
mind.  The  oidy  thing  in  him  which  was  not  di- 
minished was  his  pride.  On  the  contrary:  the 
worse  his  circumstances  became,  the  more  arro- 
gant and  haughty  and  unapproachable  did  he  be- 
come. At  last,  he  grew^  thoroughly  wild.  One 
consolation,  one  iov,  alone  remained  to  him:  a 
marvellous  grev  saddle-horse  of  Don  breed, 
which  he  had  named  INIalek-Adel,  and  was, 
really,  a  remarkable  animal. 

lie  had  ac(iuired  the  horse  in  the  following 
manner: 

As  he  was  passing  one  day,  on  horseback, 
through  a  neighbouring  village,  TchertopkhanofF 
heard  an  u])roar  among  the  peasants,  and  the 
shouting  oi"  a  crowd  around  the  dram-shop.  In 
the  centre  of  this  crowd,  robust  arms  kept  inces- 
santly rising  and  falling. 

"  \\'hat  \s  going  on  there?  " — he  inquired,  in 
the  imperious  tone  peculiar  to  him,  of  an  old 
])casant-woman,  who  w^as  standing  on  the  thresh- 
old oj'  her  cottage. 

Leaning  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  and 
seemin<i,lv  in  a  do/e,  the  woman  was  staring  iii  the 
direction  of  the  dram-shop.     ^V  tow-headed  little 

230 


THE   END   OF   T(  ITERTOPKIIAXOFF 

hoy  in  :i  calico  sliii't,  u  itli  a  siiiall  cypress-wood 
cross  on  his  hare  hreast,'  was  sittin*>-,  with  his  feet 
wide  apart  and  his  httle  fists  clenched,  hetvveen 
her  plaited  bast-slippers;  in  the  same  place  a  siiiall 
chicken  was  pecking  at  a  crust  of  rye  bread  as 
hard  as  wood. 

"  The  I^ord  only  knows,  dear  little  father," — 
replied  the  old  woman, — and,  bending  forward, 
she  laid  her  dark,  wrinkled  hand  on  the  head  of 
the  little  boy:  "  1  've  heard  say  that  our  lads  are 
beating  a  Jew." 

"A  Jew?    What  Jew?" 

"  The  Lord  knows,  dear  little  father.  Some 
Jew  or  other  made  his  appearance  among  us;  and 
whence  he  came — who  knows?  Vasya,  my  little 
gentleman,  come  to  mamma:  'ssh,  'ssh,  thou  good- 
for-nothing!  " 

The  woman  friglitened  off  the  chicken,  and 
Vasya  clutched  hold  of  her  plaid  petticoat  of 
homespun. 

"  And  so,  sir,  they  're  thrashing  him  yonder." 

"Thrashing  him?   What  for?  " 

"  AVhy,  I  don't  know,  dear  little  father.  For 
cause,  it  must  be.  And  how  could  they  fail  to 
thrash  him?  For  he  crucified  Christ,  dear  little 
father!" 

Tchertopkhanoff  gave  a  view-halloo,  lashed  his 

'  The  cross  ])lac{'<l  there  duriiifj;  tlie  I)ai)tisiiial  cerciiioiiy  by  tlie 
priest  and  worn  (hiring  life.  Tlie  material  of  the  cross  varies, 
naturally,   according   to   circumstances. — Traxsi.atok. 

237 


MKMOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

horse  witli  I  lis  kazak  wlii])  on  the  neck,  dashed 
iieadlon^-  straight  into  the  crowd,  and,  having 
penetrated  it,  hegan  with  the  said  whip  to  deal 
l)l()ws  to  ri»>lit  and  left,  without  discrimination, 
on  tlie  peasants,  crying  as  he  did  so,  in  a  very  ab- 
rupt    voice: — "  Ta  .  .  .   .  king    the    law  .... 

into  your  own  hands!     Ta king    the 

law  ....  into  your  own  hands!  The  law  ought 
to  chastise — hut  the  un  .  .  .  hap  .  .  .  .  py 
peo  ....  pie!  The  law!  The  law!  the 
la   ....  a   ...   .   aw!    !  " 

Two  minutes  had  not  elapsed  before  the  whole 
crowd  had  dispersed  in  various  directions;  and 
on  the  ground,  in  front  of  the  dram-shop,  there 
ap])eared  a  small,  thin,  swarthy-visaged  being  in 

a  nankeen  kaftan,  dishevelled  and  mauled 

The  pallid  face,  the  eyes  rolled  up,  the  mouth 
agape  ....  Wliat  was  it?  ihe  swoon  of  terror, 
or  death  itself. 

"  Whv  have  vou  killed  the  Jew?" — shouted 
TchertopkhanofF  loudly,  as  he  brandished  his 
whi])  menacingly. 

The  throng  buzzed  faintly  in  reply.  One  peas- 
ant was  clutching  his  shoulder,  another  his  side, 
a  third  his  no.se. 

"  'T  ^v'as  a  hearty  thrashin<]^!  "  was  heard  from 
the  real'  ranks. 

"With  a  kazak  whip,  too!"  said  another 
voice. 

"  Why  have  you  killed  the  Jew?    I  ask  j'ou, 

238 


THE   EXD   OF   TC  IIKUTOPKIIAXOFF 

you  damned  Asiatics!" — repeated  Tchertopkha- 
noff. 

At  this  point,  tlic  l)eing  who  was  lying  on  the 
ground  sprang  alertly  to  his  feet,  and  I'unning 
after  Tchertopkhanoff,  convulsively  grasped  tlie 
edge  of  his  saddle. 

A  hearty  laugh  thundered  through  the  throng. 

"He's  alive!"  proceeded  a  voice  once  more 
from  the  rear  ranks.    "  He  's  jast  like  a  cat!  " 

"  Defend  me,  save  me,  Your  Veil-Born!  " — the 
unhappy  Jew  stammered,  the  while  pressing  him- 
self, with  his  whole  hreast,  against  Tchertopkha- 
noff's  foot:  "  or  they  vill  kill  me,  they  vill  kill  me, 
Your  Veil-Born !  " 

"What  did  they  do  that  to  you  for?  "—in- 
quired  TchertopkhanofF. 

"  Vy,  God  ees  my  vitness,  1  cannot  tell! — Zeir 
cattle  begin  to  die  ....  and  zey  suspect  me 
....  but,  as  God  ees  my  vitness,  I  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  we  '11  look  into  that  later  on !  " — inter- 
rupted Tchertopkhanoff — "  but  now,  do  j^ou  lay 
hold  of  my  saddle,  and  follow  me.— And  as  for 
you!" — lie  added,  turning  to  the  crowd, — "you 
know  me  ?  —  I  'm  landed  proprietor  Pantelei 
Tchertopkhanoff,  and  I  live  in  the  village  of  Bez- 
sonovo, — well,  and  that  means  that  you  can  com- 
plain of  me  whenever  you  see  fit, — and  of  the  Jew 
also,  by  the  way!  " 

"Why  should  we  complain?" — said  a  stately,, 
grey-bearded  peasant,  a  perfect  patriarch  of  the 

239 


^rKMOIHS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

oUkn  (lays,  in  a  low  tone. —  (He  had  not  been 
worrying  the  .Jew  with  the  rest,  by  the  way.)  — 
"  \Vv  know  thy  grace  well,  dear  httle  father, 
Tantelei  Krcniyeitch;  we  are  greatly  indebted  to 
thy  grace  i'or  the  lesson  thou  hast  given  us!  " 

"Why  complain!" — joined  in  others: — "but 
we  will  lune  our  will  wdth  that  pagan!  He  shall 
not  escape  us ! — We  '11  hunt  him  like  a  hare  in  the 
fields.  .  .' 

Tchertopkhanoff  twitched  his  moustache, 
snorted,  and  rode  off  at  a  foot-pace  to  his  own 
\illage,  accompanied  by  the  Jew  whom  he  had 
rescued  from  his  oppressors,  as  he  had  formerly 
rescued  Tikhon  Ivanitch. 


IV 

A  FEW  days  later,  TchertopkhanofF's  sole  re- 
maining page  announced  to  him  that  some  man 
or  other  had  arrived  on  horseback,  and  wished  to 
speak  to  him.  Tchertopkhanoff  w^nt  out  on  the 
j)orch,  and  beheld  his  acquaintance  the  little  Jew, 
mounted  on  a  fine  horse  of  the  Don,  which  was 
standing  motionless  and  proudly  in  the  middle  of 
the  court-yard. — The  Jew  wore  no  cap — he  w^as 
holding  it  under  his  arm;  he  had  not  put  his  feet 
into  the  stirrups  themselves,  but  into  the  stirrup- 
straps;  the  tattered  tails  of  his  kaftan  hung  down 
on  each  side  of  the  saddle.  On  catching  sight  of 
Tchertoj)khanoff  he  began  to  make  a  smacking 

240 


THE   END   OF   TCTTERTOPKHAXOFF 

noise  witli  his  lips  aiul  to  twitch  his  clhows  and 
jerk  his  legs  about,  l^iit  Tchertopkhanoff'  not 
only  (lid  not  reply  to  his  greeting,  but  even  flew 
into  a  rage;  he  suddenly  flared  up  all  over:  a 
scabby  Jew  had  the  audacity  to  sit  on  such  a  mag- 
nificent horse  ....  how  indecent! 

"Hey  there,  thou  Ethiopian  phiz!" — he 
shouted: — "dismount  this  instant,  if  tliou  dost 
not  wish  to  be  hauled  ofl'  into  the  mud!  " 

The  Jew  innncdiately  obeyed,  tumbled  in  a 
heap  ont  of  the  saddle  like  a  sack,  and  holding  the 
bridle  with  one  hand,  moved  toward  Tchertoj^- 
khanoff*,  smiling  and  bowing. 

"What  dost  thou  want?" — asked  Pantelei 
Eremyeitch,  with  dignity. 

"  Your  Veil-Born,  please  to  look, — is  n't  dis'a 
fine  little  horse?  " — said  the  Jew,  continuing  to 
bow. 

"  H'm  ....  ves  ....  't  is    a    ffood    horse. 

•/  CD 

Where  didst  thou  get  it?   Stole  it,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No,  indeed  I  deed  n't.  Your  Veil-Born ! — 
I  'm  an  honest  Jew,  I  deed  n't  steal  it,  but  I  got 
it  for  Your  Veil-Born,  really  I  deed!  And  vat 
trouble  I  have,  vat  trouble!  And  vat  a  horse  eet 
ees!  You  can't  find  such  anoder  horse  in  all  ze 
Don  Proveence.  See,  Your  Veil-Born,  vat  a 
horse  eet  ees !  Blease  to  gome  here !  Whoa  there 
whoa turn  round,  stand  side- 
ways!— And  ve  vill  take  off  ze  saddle. — Vat  do 
you  zink  of  heem,  Your  Veil-Born?  " 

241 


MK^rOlRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

"  T  is  a  good  liorse," — repeated  Tchertop- 
kluinoft".  with  iVit>iR'd  indifference, — but  his  heart 
heiran  lairlv  to  tliunin  in  liis  breast.  He  was  a 
passionate  lox  t  r  oi'  "  horse-flesli,"  and  was  a  fine 
jii(l«4e  of  it. 

"  Hut  zhiist  inspect  heem,  Your  Yell-Born! 
Stroke  hees  naick,  hee,  hee,  hee!    That 's^  right!  " 

Tcliertoi)khanoff,  as  though  unwillingly,  laid 
his  iiand  on  tlie  horse's  neck,  administered  a 
couple  of  pats,  then  ran  his  fingers  down  the  ani- 
nials  back,  beginning  with  his  forelock,  and  on 
reacliing  a  certain  place  above  the  kidneys,  he 
exerted  a  slight  pressure  on  the  spot,  in  expert 
fashion. — The  steed  instantly  arched  his  back, 
and  darting  a  sidelong  glance  round  at  Tchertop- 
khanofi*  from  his  haughty  black  eye,  he  snorted 
and  shifted  his  forefeet. 

The  Jew  burst  out  laughing,  and  clapped  his 
hands  softly. — "  He  recognises  hees  master,  Your 
Yell-Born,  hees  master! " 

"  Come  now,  don't  lie," — interposed  Tchertop- 
khanofi'.  testily. — "I  haven't  tlie  means  where- 
with to  buv  this  horse  of  thee  .  .  .  and  I  have 
never  yet  accepted  a  gift  from  the  Lord  God 
Himself,  much  less  from  a  Jew!  " 

"  And  how  zhould  I  dare  to  gif  you  anyzing, 
good  gracious!  " — exclaimed  the  Jew: — "  Buy  it, 
"S^our  Yell-Born  ....  and  as  for  ze  money,  I 
\  ait  for  heem." 

Tchc  rtopkhcinofF  reflected. 

24.2 


THE   END   OF   TC  IIKRTOPKIIAXOFF 

"  Wiiat  wilt  thou  take?" — he  said  at  hist, 
■through  his  teeth. 

The  Jew  slirugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Vat  1  pay  niyzelf — two  hundred  rul)les." 

The  liorse  was  worth  dou})le, — ^pro})ahly  exen 
thriee  that  sum. 

Tehertopkhanoff  turned  away,  and  yawned 
feverishly. 

"  And  when  dost  thou  want  the  money?  "  he 
asked,  eontraeting  his  brows  with  an  effort,  and 
without  looking  at  the  Jew. 

"  Venever  Your  Veil-Born  likes." 

Tehertopkhanoff  threw  })ack  his  head,  but  did 
not  raise  his  eyes. — "  That 's  not  an  answer. 
Talk  sense,  thou  Herod's  race! — Am  I  to  run 
into  debt  to  thee,  pray?  " 

"  Veil,  zen,  let  us  zay  zo," — said  the  Jew^  has- 
tily,— "  in  seex  monts  ....  ees  eet  a  bargain?  " 

Tehertopkhanoff  made  no  reply. 

The  Jew  tried  to  get  a  look  at  his  eyes. — "  Do 
you  agree?  Vill  you  order  ze  horse  to  be  taken 
to  ze  stable?  " 

"I  don't  want  the  saddle," — articulated  Teher- 
topkhanoff,. abruptly. — "  Take  off  the  saddle — 
dost  hear  me?  " 

"  Zertainly,  zertainly,  I  vill  take  eet,  I  vill  take 
eet," — stammered  the  delighted  Jew,  and  threw 
the  saddle  over  his  shoulder. 

"  And  the  money," — went  on  Tehertopkhanoff 
.  ..."  is  to  be  paid  six  months  hence. — x\nd  not 

'      243 


MK.MOIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

two  Immlifil  rubles,  l)ul  two  hundred  and  fifty. 
Hold  tliv  tonoue!  Two  hundred  and  fifty,  I  tell 
thee!     Follow  nie." 

Tchertopkhanoflf  still  could  not  bring  himself 
to  raise  his  eyes.  Never  had  liis  pride  suffered  so. 
— "  Obviously,  't  is  a  gift," — he  said  to  himself: 
"  this  devil  is  offering  it  to  me  out  of  gratitude!  " 
And  Ik-  would  have  liked  ])oth  to  embrace  the 
.lew  and  to  murder  him.   .   .   . 

"  Vour  A'^ell-Born," — began  the  Jew,  gaining 
courage,  and  displaying  his  teeth  in  a  grin: — 
"  you  ought,  after  ze  Russian  custom,  to  receive 
heem  from  ze  coat-tail  to  ze  coat-tail."  .... 

"  \W'll,  here  's  a  pretty  thing  thou  hast  taken 
into  thy  head! — A  Jew  ....  and  Russian  cus- 
tom!— Hev,  who's  there?  Take  the  horse,  lead 
him  to  the  stable. — And  give  hhn  some  oats.  I  '11 
he  there  directly  mvself,  and  look  him  over.  xVnd 
understand:  his  name  is  ]Malek-Adel!  " 

Tehertopkhanoff'  started  to  ascend  the  porch- 
steps,  but  wheeled  sharply  round  on  his  heels,  and 
running  up  to  the  Jew,  he  shook  him  warmly  by 
the  hand. — The  latter  bent  forward,  and  had  al- 
ready thrust  out  his  lips — but  Tchertopkluinoff 
sprang  back  and,  saying  in  an  undertone:  "  Don't 
tell  anybody!  "  he  disappeared  through  the  door. 


l''i(o.M  that  day  forth,  ]Malek-Adel  became  Tcher- 
topkhanoff's   chief   business,'  liis   chief   care,   his 

244 


THE   EXD   OF   'IC  IIKUroPKIIAXOFF 

greatest  joy  in  life.  He  eume  to  lo\c  him  as  lie 
had  not  loved  even  iMaslui,  he  beeunie  more  at- 
tached to  liim  than  to  Xedopiiiskhi. — And  wliat  a 
horse  it  was!  Fire,  regidar  fire,  simply  powder — 
and  stately  as  a  hoyar! — Indefatigable,  with 
great  power  of  en(hn"ance,  turn  him  wliitherso- 
ever  you  would,  he  ol)eyed  implicitly;  and  it  cost 
nothing  to  feed  him:  if  tliere  was  nothing  else,  lie 
would  eat  the  eartli  undei*  liis  hoofs.  ^Vhen  he 
went  at  a  foot-pace,  his  rider  felt  as  though  he 
were  being  borne  in  arms;  wlien  he  trotted, — as 
though  he  were  being  rocked  on  the  surge  of  the 
sea;  and  when  he  galloped,  the  very  wind  could 
not  overtake  him.  He  never  got  blown,  for  liis 
lungs  were  fine.  His  legs  were  of  steel;  and  as 
ff)r  stumbling — there  was  never  even  a  hint  of 
such  a  thing!  It  was  a  mere  nothing  for  him  to 
leap  over  a  ditch  or  a  paling.  And  what  a  clever 
beast  he  was!  Pie  would  run  in  answer  to  a  call, 
tossing  back  his  head;  order  him  to  stand  still,  and 
go  away  yourself — and  he  would  not  stir;  as  soon 
as  vou  started  to  retiu*n,  he  would  whinny  ahnost 
inaudibly,  as  mucli  as  to  say:  "  Here  am  I!" — 
And  he  was  afraid  of  nothing:  he  would  find  his 
road  in  pitch-darkness,  or  in  a  blinding  snow- 
storm; and  he  would  not  let  a  stranger  touch  him 
on  any  account  whatsoever:  he  would  bite  him. 
And  let  no  dog  sneak  about  him:  he  would  smite 
the  dog  instantly  on  the  brow  witli  liis  hoof, 
whack!  and  that  was  the  last  of  tlie  dog. — He  was 
a    s])irited    steed:    you    might    flourish    a    whip 

245 


M  KM  OIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

oMT  liini  hy  way  of  display — but  God  preserve 
tlif  person  wlio  should  touch  him  with  it!  But 
what  is  the  use  of  going  into  lengthy  details? — 
lie  was  a  perfect  treasure,  not  a  horse! 

W'lieii  Tehertopkhanoff  undertook  to  describe 
his  Mak  k-A(kl,  he  could  not  lind  words  to  do  him 
justice.  And  liow  he  caressed  and  petted  him! — 
The  creatures  coat  shone  with  the  gleam  of 
silver — and  not  of  old.  but  of  new  silver,  which 
has  a  dai'k  gloss;  pass  your  hand  over  it  and  it 
\sas  like  velvet!  The  saddle,  the  horse-cloth,  the 
bit, —  all  his  trappings  were  accurately  adjusted, 
and  burnished  to  such  a  degree  that  you  might 
take  a  pencil  and  make  sketches  on  them!  Teher- 
topkhanoff'— and  what  more  can  one  say? — per- 
sonally, with  his  own  hands,  plaited  his  pet's  fore- 
lock, and  washed  its  mane  and  tail  with  beer,  and 
even  anointed  its  hoofs  with  salve.   .   .   . 

He  used  to  mount  >Malek-Adel  and  ride  off — 
not  to  call  on  his  neighbours, — for,  as  in  the  past, 
he  had  no  intercourse  with  them, — but  across 
their  fields,  past  their  manor-houses.  .  .  .  As 
much  as  to  sav:  "  ^Vdmire  from  a  distance,  vou 
fools!  "  And  if  he  heard  that  a  hunt  was  on  hand 
anywhere, —  that  a  wealthy  gentleman  was  pre- 
paring to  set  off  for  remote  fields, — he  immedi- 
ately betook  himself  thither,  and  pranced  about 
at  a  distance,  on  the  horizon,  astounding  all  be- 
holders w  ith  the  beauty  and  swiftness  of  his  steed, 
hut   ])ei-niitting  no  one  to  ap])roach  close  to  him. 

240 


TPIE   END   OF   ICIIEKTOIMkHAXOFF 

On  one  occasion,  a  sportsman,  accompanied  by  his 
whole  suite,  pursued  him;  perceiving  tliat  Tcher- 
t()j)khanoiF  was  escaping  him,  lie  began  to  shout 
at  him  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  galloping  at  top- 
speed  the  while:  "  Iley,  there!  Listen!  I  '11  pay 
thee  whatever  thou  askest  for  thy  horse!  I  won't 
begrudge  a  thousand  rubles!  1  '11  give  my  wife, 
my  children!   Take  my  last  farthing!  " 

TchertopkluinofF  suddenly  reined  Malek-Adel 
up  short.  The  sportsman  dashed  up  to  him. — 
"Dear  little  father!"  he  cried:  "tell  me,  what 
wilt  thou  take?    My  own  father!  " 

"  If  thou  wert  the  Tzar," — said  Tchertopkha- 
noff,  enunciating  each  word  distinctly  {and  never 
in  his  life  had  he  heard  of  Shakespeare), — ^"  and 
if  thou  wert  to  give  me  thy  whole  kingdom  for  my 
horse, — I  wouldn't  accept  it!" — So  saying,  he 
gave  a  guffaw,  made  JNIalek-Adel  rear  up  on  his 
hind  legs,  wheeled  him  round  in  the  air,  on  his 
hind  legs  alone,  just  as  though  the  animal  had 
been  a  peg-top  or  a  teetotum, — and  off  he  flew! 
He  fairly  flashed  in  sparks  over  the  stubble-field. 
And  the  sportsman  (they  say  that  he  was  a  very 
wealthy  prince)  "  dashed  his  cap  on  the  ground," 
— -and  then  flung  himself,  face  down,  on  his  cap ! 
And  there  he  lay  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour. 

And  how  could  Tchertopkhanoff  fail  to  prize 
his  horse?  Was  it  not  thanks  to  him  that  he  again 
became  superior  to  all  his  neighbours — indubita- 
bly, deflnitively  superior  to  all  his  neighbours^ 

247 


.AIKMOIHS   OF  A   SPOKTSMAiN 


VI 

In  tlie  meanwliilc,  time  passed,  the  term  for  pay- 
iiRiit  (Ircu  near — and  TeliertopkluinofF  had  not 
tirt\-  i'nl)le.s,  niueh  less  two  liundred  and  fifty. 
What  was  to  be  done,  how  was  the  situation  to  be 
redeemed  ^ — "  Never  mind," — he  decided  at  hist, 
"  if  tlie  Jew  Avill  not  show  mercv,  if  lie  will  not 
wait  a  little  longer, — I  "11  hand  over  to  him  my 
house  and  my  land, — and  I  myself  will  ride  off 
on  the  horse  in  some  direction,  at  random!  I  '11 
})erish  with  hunger, — but  ^lalek-Adel  I  will  not 
surrender!  "  lie  became  greatly  agitated,  and 
even  grew  pensive;  but  at  this  point  Fate — for 
tlie  first  and  last  time — showed  pity  on  him, 
smiled  on  him:  some  distant  aunt,  whose  very 
name  TchertopkhanofF  did  not  know,  left  him 
in  her  w  ill  what  was  a  huge  sum  in  his  eyes — two 
thousand  rul)les! — And  he  received  this  mone}' 
just  in  time,  so  to  speak:  the  day  before  the  Jew's 
arrival.  Tchertopkhanoff  nearlj^  went  out  of  his 
senses  for  joy — but  the  thought  of  vodka  did  not 
enter  his  head:  he  had  not  taken  a  drop  into  his 
mouth  since  the  day  ^lalek-Adel  had  come  to  him. 
He  hastened  to  the  stable,  and  kissed  his  friend  on 
both  sides  of  his  muzzle  above  the  nostrils,  in  the 
spot  where  a  horse's  skin  is  so  soft. — "  Now  we 
shall  not  be  parted!" — he  cried,  patting  ]\Ialek- 
Adel's  neck,  beneath  the  well-combed  mane.     On 

24-8 


THE   END   OF   TCTTERTOrKTlAXOFF 

his  return  to  the  house,  he  counted  out  and  sealed 
up  in  a  packet  two  liundred  and  fifty  ruhles. 
Then  he  mused,  as  lie  lay  on  his  back  and  smoked 
his  pipe,  as  to  how  he  should  dispose  of  the  re- 
maining- money — in  fact,  as  to  what  sort  of 
hounds  he  should  get, — genuine  Kostroma 
hounds,  and  they  must,  without  fail,  be  the  red- 
spotted  variety!  He  even  had  a  chat  with  Per- 
fishka,  to  ^^'holn  he  promised  a  new  kaziik  coat 
with  yellow  galloon  on  all  the  seams — and  went 
to  bed  in  the  most  blissful  mood  possible. 

He  had  a  bad  dream :  he  thought  he  had  ridden 
out  to  a  hunt:  only,  not  on  JNIalek-Adel,  but  on 
some  strange  animal,  in  the  nature  of  a  camel;  a 
white  fox,  white  as  snow,  came  running  to  meet 
him.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  swing  his  whip,  he  tried  to 
set  the  dogs  on  it — but  in  his  hand,  instead  of  a 
whip  he  found  a  wisp  of  bast,^  and  the  fox  kej)t 
trotting  on  in  front  of  him,  and  sticking  out  its 
tongue  at  him  in  mockery.  He  sprang  from  his 
camel,  stumbled,  fell  ....  and  fell  straight  into 
the  arms  of  a  gendarme,  who  summoned  him  to 
the   Governor-General,   in  whom  he  recognised 

Yaff.  ... 

Tchertopkhanoff  awoke.  The  room  was  dark ; 
the  cocks  had  just  crowed  for  the  second  time.  .  .  . 

Somewhere,  far,  far  away,  a  horse  was  neigh- 
ing. 

'Bunches  of  shredded  h:\s\  from  tlic  inner  hark  of  the  Ihulen 
tree  form  tlic  favoriU-  hath-sponges. — Translator. 

2M) 


MKMOIKS  OF  A  wSPOKTSMAN 

Tcliertopklij'uiofF  raised  liis  head Again 

a  i'aliit,  faint  nei^liing  was  audible. 

■  Thai  s  Maleiv-Adel  neighing!" — he  said  to 
liiiiiself "That's  liis  neigh!    But  why  is 

it  so  i'ar  away?     Good  heavens!  ...   It  cannot 

I  '' 

1)0    ...    . 

^VIl  at  once,  Tchertopkhanoff  turned  cold  all 
over,  leaped  from  his  bed  on  the  instant,  found  his 
hoots,  his  elotl)ing,  by  groping,  dressed  himself, 
and,  snatching  the  kev  to  the  stable  from  beneath 
his  pillow,  he  rushed  out  into  the  court-yaid. 


VII 


The  stable  was  situated  at  the  very  end  of  the 
yard;  one  of  its  walls  abutted  on  the  open  fields. 
Tchertopkhanoff  did  not  immediately  insert  the 
key  into  the  lock — his  hands  were  trembling — - 
and  did  not  immediately  turn  the  keA^.  .  .  .  He 
stood  motionless,  holding  his  breath,  to  see  if  any- 
thing Avere  stirring  behind  the  door.  "  ISIaleshka! 
Maletz!"  he  called  in  an  undertone:  deathly  si- 
lence! Tchertopkhanoff  involuntarily  pulled  out 
the  key:  the  door  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and 
opened.  .  .  .  That  meant,  that  the  door  had  not 
been  locked.  He  stepped  across  the  threshold 
and  again  called  his  horse — this  time  by  his  full 
name:  "  ^laiek-Adel!  "  But  his  faithful  comrade 
did  not  respond,  only  a  mouse  rustled  in  the  straw. 
Then   Tchertopkhanoff  flung  himself  into  that 

250 


THE   END   OF   TCHERTOPKIIAXOFF 

one  of  three  stalls  in  which  ]Malek-Adel  had  Ikch 
lodged.  He  went  straight  to  that  stall,  although 
such  darkness  reigned  all  around  that  it  was  ini- 
possihle  to  see  a  hand's-breadth  in  front  of  one. 
.  .  .  It  was  empty!  Tchertopkhanoff's  head 
reeled;  a  bell  seemed  to  be  booming  under  his 
skull,  lie  tried  to  say  something — but  merely 
hissed,  and  groping  with  his  hands  above,  below, 
on  all  sides,  panting,  with  knees  bending  under 
him,  he  made  his  way  from  one  stall  to  the  second 
....  to  the  third,  which  was  filled  witli  hay  al- 
most to  the  top,  hit  against  one  wall,  then  the 
other,  fell,  rolled  heels  over  head,  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  suddenly  rushed  headlong  through  the  half- 
open  door  into  the  court -yard.  ... 

"  They  have  stolen  him!  Perfishka!  Perfishka! 
They  have  stolen  him!  " — he  roared,  at  the  top  of 
his  lungs. 

Perfishka  the  page  flew  out  of  the  garret  in 
which  he  slept,  topsy-turvy,  clad  in  nothing  but 
his  shirt.   ... 

The  two  crashed  together  like  drunken  men — 
the  gentleman  and  his  solitary  sertant — in  the 
middle  of  the  yard ;  they  spun  round  like  madmen 
in  front  of  each  other.  The  gentleman  could  not 
explain  wliat  the  matter  was;  neither  could  the 
servant  comprehend  what  was  wanted  of  him. — 
"Alas!  alas!" — stammered  Tchertopkhanoff. — 
"  Alas!  alas!  "  the  page  repeated  after  him. — "  A 
lantern!  give  me  tlie  lantern,  light  the  lantern!  A 

251 


MKMOIHS   OF   A    SPORTSMAiX 

liulit  I  A  liiilitl  ""  hurst  J'ortli,  at  last,  iVoni  Teller- 
topUhaiioft's  exhausted  hreast.  Perfishka  flew  to 
the  house. 

Hut  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  light  the  lantern, 
or  to  get  a  light:  sulphur  matches  were  consid- 
ered a  rarity  in  Russia  at  that  epoch;  the  last  em- 
bers in  the  kitchen  had  long  since  died  out;  flint 
and  steel  were  not  speedily  to  be  found,  and 
worked  badly,  (ruashing  his  teeth,  Tchertopkha- 
nofl'  snatched  them  from  the  hands  of  the  panic- 
stricken  Perfishka,  and  began  to  strike  a  light 
liiinself:  sparks  showered  forth  in  abundance, 
oaths  and  even  groans  showered  forth  in  still 
greater  abundance — but  the  tinder  either  did  not 
take  fire  at  all,  or  went  out,  despite  the  strenu- 
ous efl'orts  of  four  inflated  cheeks  and  lips!  At 
last,  at  the  end  of  five  minutes,  no  sooner,  the 
morsel  of  tallow  candle  was  burning  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  broken  lantern,  and  Tchertopkha- 
noft',  accompanied  by  Perfishka,  precipitated 
himself  into  the  stable,  elevated  the  lantern  above 

his  head,   looked   about  him Completely 

empty! 

He  rushed  out  into  the  yard,  traversed  it  in  all 
directions  at  a  run — the  horse  was  nowhere  to  be 
found!  The  wattled  fence  surrounding  Pantelei 
Kremyeitch's  manor  had  long  since  fallen  to  de- 
cay, and  in  many  ])laces  it  was  bent  over  and 
hanging  close  to  the  ground.  .  .  .  Alongside  the 
stable   it   had   tumbled   down   completely   for  a 

252 


THE   END   OF    ICIIEliiOrK  II AXOKF 

space  more  than  two  feet  in  width.  Perfislika 
pointed  out  this  place  to  TchertopklianoiF. 

"  Master!  look  here:  this  was  not  so  to-day. 
Yonder,  the  posts  are  sticking  out  of  the  ground, 
too;  some  one  must  have  pulled  them  out." 

Tchertopkluinoff  daslied  up  with  liis  lantern, 
passed  it  along  the  ground.  .  .  . 

"  Hoofs,  hoofs,  the  prints  of  a  horse's  shoes, 
prints,  fresh  prints!" — he  muttered  rapidly. — 
"  Here  is  where  they  led  liim  through,  here, 
here!  " 

He  instantly  leaped  over  the  hedge,  and  with 
the  cry:  "  JNIalek-Adel !  ]Malek-Adel!  "  he  ran 
straight  olf  across  the  fields. 

Perfishka  remained  standing  in  bewilderment 
by  the  wattled  fence.  The  bright  circle  cast  by 
the  lantern  speedily  vanished  from  his  eyes,  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  thick  darkness  of  the  starless  and 
moonless  night. 

TchertopkhanofF's  despairing  cries  resounded 
with  ever-increasing  faintness.  .  .  . 

VIII 

Day  was  dawning  when  he  retiu'ned  home.  He 
no  longer  bore  the  semblance  of  a  man :  his  entire 
clotliing  was  covered  with  mud,  his  face  had  as- 
sumed a  strange  and  savage  aspect,  his  eyes  had 
a  morose  and  stupid  look.  In  a  hoarse  wliisper 
he  drove  Perfishka  away  from  him,  and  locked 

2.53 


.MKMOIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

hiinsclt'  u])  in  his  own  room.  He  could  scarcely 
stand,  so  exliausted  was  he, — yet  he  did  not  go  to 
bed,  l)ut  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  the  door,  and 
clasped  liis  head  in  liis  liands. 

'*  They  liave  stolen  him! stolen  him!" 

Rut  how  had  the  thief  contrived  to  steal  jNIalek- 
Adel  l)y  ni<^ht  from  the  fast-locked  stable? 
Malek-Adel.  who  bv  dav  would  not  allow  a 
stranger  to  come  near  him — to  steal  him  without 
noise,  without  a  sound?  And  how  is  it  to  be  ex- 
l)lained  that  not  a  single  yard-dog  barked?  To 
tell  the  truth,  tliere  M'ere  only  two  of  them,  two 
young  puppies,  and  even  they  had  buried  them- 
selves in  the  ground,  with  cold  and  hunger — but 
notwithstanding.   .   .   . 

"  And  ^vhat  am  I  to  do  now  without  ^lalek- 
Adel?  "  thought  TchertopkhanofF.  "  I  have  now 
been  deprived  of  my  last  joy — it  is  time  for  me  to 
die.  Sliall  1  buy  another  horse,  seeing  that  I  am 
now  provided  ^^ ith  money?  Rut  where  am  I  to 
find  another  horse  like  that?  " 

"Pantelei  Eremveitch!  Pantelei  Eremveitch!" 
— a  timid  call  made  itself  audible  outside  the 
door. 

Tchertopkhanoif  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  ^Mio  is  it?" — he  shouted  in  an  unnatural 
voice. 

"  'T  is  I,  your  page,  Perfishka." 

"  ^^^lat  dost  tliou  want?  Has  he  been  found, 
lias  he  run  home?  " 

254 


THE   END   OF   TCIIERTOPKIIAXOFF 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  Pantelei  Eremyeitch ;  but  tliat 
little  Jew  who  sold  him  .  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"  He  has  arrived." 

"  Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho ! " — TchertopkhanofF  guf- 
fawed with  laughter, — and  flung  the  door  open 
with  a  bang. — "  Drag  him  hither,  drag  him,  drag 
him!" 

At  the  sight  of  the  savage,  disordered  figure  of 
his  "  benefaccor,"  which  thus  suddenly  presented 
itself,  the  Jew,  who  was  standing  behind  Per- 
fishka,  made  an  attempt  to  take  to  his  heels;  but 
TchertopkhanofF  overtook  him  in  two  bounds, 
and  seized  him  by  the  throat  like  a  tiger. 

"  Ah!  thou  hast  come  for  thy  money!  for  thy 
money!  " — he  yelled  hoarsely,  as  though  he  were 
being  strangled,  instead  of  himself  doing  the 
strangling;  "thou  hast  stolen  him  by  night,  and 
by  day  hast  come  for  thy  money?    Hey?    Hey?" 

"Have  mercy,  Yo  .  .  ur  Ve-ell-Bo-orn ! " 
groaned  the  Jew. 

"  Tell  me,  where  is  mv  horse?  What  hast  thou 
done  with  him?  To  whom  hast  thou  disposed  of 
him?   Tell  me,  tell  me,  tell  me!  " 

The  Jew  could  no  longer  groan;  even  the  ex- 
pression of  terror  had  vanished  from  his  face, 
which  had  turned  blue.  His  hands  dropped  and 
swung  limply;  his  wliole  body,  vehemently  shaken 
by  TchertopkhanofF,  swayed  back  and  forth  like 
a  reed. 

255 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

'■  1  11  i)ay  [hvv  thy  money,  1  '11  pay  thee  thy 
money  in  full,  to  the  uttermost  kopek," — yelled 
Tehertopkhanoff — "  only  I  '11  strangle  thee,  like 
the  meanest  of  chiekens,  if  thou  dost  not  instantly 
tell  me.   .   .   .' 

"  But  you  have  strangled  him,  master," — re- 
marked the  })age  Perfishka  suhmissively. 

Only  then  did  Tehertopkhiinoff  come  to  his 
senses. 

He  relinquished  his  hold  on  the  Jew's  throat; 
the  latter  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  Tchertop- 
khanofl'  picked  him  up,  seated  him  on  a  bench, 
poiH'ed  a  glass  of  vodka  down  his  throat — and 
restored  him  to  consciousness.  And  .having  re- 
stored him  to  consciousness,  he  entered  into 
conversation  with  him. 

It  appeared  that  the  Jew  had  not  the  slightest 
comprehension  as  to  the  tlieft  of  ^lalek-AdeL 
And  why  should  he  steal  the  horse  which  he  him- 
self had  obtained  for  "  his  most  respected  Pan- 
telei  Eremyeitch  "? 

Then  TchertopkhanofF  led  him  to  the  stable. 

Together  they  inspected  the  stall,  the  manger, 
the  lock  on  the  door;  they  rummaged  in  the  hay, 
the  straw,  and  then  went  into  the  yard;  Tchertop- 
khanofi'  pointed  out  to  the  Jew  the  imprints  of 
hoofs  beside  the  wattled  fence — and  all  at  once 
smote  himself  on  the  thigh. 

"  Stop!  " — he  cried. — "  Where  didst  thou  buy 
tlie  horse?  " 

256 


THE   END   OF   TCITEK  rOPKTIAXOFF 

"  In  INlaloarkliangel  district,  at  tlie  Verkliosen- 
skoe  horse-fair," — replied  the  Jew. 
"  From  whom?  " 
"  From  a  kazak." 
Stay!  Was  tliat  kazak  a  young  mati  or  an  old 


one 


7  " 


A  sedate  man,  of  middle  age." 

"  And  what  was  he  like?  How  did  he  look?  A 
sly  rascal,  I  suppose." 

"  He  must  have  been  a  rascal,  Your  Veil- 
Born." 

"  And  what  did  that  rascal  say  to  you, — had  he 
owned  the  horse  long?  " 

"  I  remember  that  he  said  he  had." 

"  Well,  then,  no  one  but  himself  could  have 
stolen  it!  Judge  for  thyself,  listen,  stand  here 
.  .  .  .  what's  thy  name?" 

The  Je^^'  gave  a  start,  and  turned  his  little 
black  eyes  on  Tchertopkhanoif . 

"  What  is  mi)  name?  " 

"  Well,  yes;  what  art  thou  called?  " 

"  INIoshel  Leiba." 

"  Well,  judge  for  thyself,  Leiba,  my  friend, — - 
thou  art  a  clever  man, — into  whose  hands,  save 
those  of  his  former  master,  would  Malek-Adel 
have  surrendered  himself?  For  he  saddled  him, 
and  bridled  him,  and  took  his  blanket  off  him— 
yonder  it  lies  on  the  hay! He  simply  be- 
haved as  though  he  were  at  home!  ]\Ialek-Adel 
would  certainly  have  crushed  under  his  iioofs  any 

2.57 


MEMOIKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

one  who  was  not  his  master!  He  would  have 
raised  siieh  an  uproar  that  he  would  have  thor- 
out»lily  ahirnied  the  whole  village!  Dost  thou 
agree  willi  nieC  ' 

■'  I  (Im.  I  do.  Your  Veil-Born.  .  .  ." 
■  Well,  then,   first  of  all,   we  must  find  that 
kaziik!  " 

"  Hut  how  are  ve  to  find  him,  Yoiu*  Veil-Born? 
1  have  never  seen  him  except  vun  little  time — and 
vera  ees  he  now — and  vat  is  hees  name?  Ai,  va'i, 
vai!  " — added  the  Jew,  dolefully  shaking  his  ear- 
locks. 

"  Leiba!  "  —  shouted  Tchertoj)khanofF  sud- 
denly,— "  Leiba,  look  at  me!  I  have  lost  my  mind, 
I  am  not  mvself !  ....  I  shall  lav  violent  hands 
oil  myself,  if  thou  wilt  not  help  me!  " 

"  But  how  can  I?  .  .  ." 

"  Come  with  me — and  we  will  find  that  thief!  " 

"  But  vere  zhall  ve  go?  " 

"  Among  the  fairs,  on  the  big  highways,  on  the 
little  highways,  to  the  horse-thieves,  the  towns, 
the  villages,  the  farms — everywhere,  everywhere! 
And  as  for  money,  thou  needst  not  wony :  I  have 
received  an  inheritance,  brother!  I  '11  squander 
the  last  kopek— but  I  '11  get  my  friend.  And  the 
kazak,  that  villain,  shall  not  escape  us!  AVhither- 
soever  he  goes,  thither  will  we  go  also!  If  he  is 
under  the  earth — we,  too,  will  go  under  the  earth! 
If  he  goes  to  the  devil — we  '11  go  to  Satan 
too!" 

258 


THE   END   OF   TCIIER TOPKIIAXOFF 

"  Veil,  but  vy  to  Zatan?  " — remarked  the  Jew, 
— "  ve  can  get  along  vizoiit  heem." 

"Leiba!"  —  interposed  TchertopklianofF,  — 
"  Leiba,  although  thou  art  a  Jew,  and  thy  faith 
is  accursed — yet  thou  hast  a  soul  better  than  that 
of  many  a  Christian!  Thou  hast  taken  i)itv  on 
me!  there  is  no  use  in  my  setting  off  alone,  I  can- 
not deal  with  this  affair  alone.  I  am  hot-headed — 
but  tluMi  hast  a  good  liead,  a  head  of  gold !  That 's 
the  way  with  thy  race:  it  has  attained  to  every- 
tiling  without  science!  Perhaps  thou  hast  thy 
doubts,  and  sayest  to  thyself :  '  Whence  has  he  the 
money? '  Come  into  my  room  with  me — 1  '11  show 
thee  all  the  money.  Take  it,  take  my  cross,  from 
my  neck — only  give  me  ^lalek-Adel,  give  him  to 
me,  give  him  to  me!  " 

Tchertopkhanoff  shook  as  though  in  fever:  the 
perspiration  poured  down  his  face  in  streams,  and 
mingling  with  his  tears,  became  lost  in  liis  mous- 
tache. He  pressed  Leiba's  hands,  he  entreated 
him,  he  almost  kissed  him.  .  .  He  had  got  into  a 
transport.  The  Jew  tried  to  reply,  to  convince 
him  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  absent  him- 
self from  his  business In  vain !  Tchertop- 
khanoff would  not  listen  to  anything.  There  was 
no  help  for  it :  poor  Leiba  was  forced  to  consent. 

On  the  following  day,  Tchertopkhanoff,  ac- 
companied by  Leiba,  drove  away  from  Bezsonovo 
in  a  peasant-cart.  The  Jew  wore  a  somewhat  dis- 
concerted aspect,  clung  to  tlie  rail  with  one  hand, 

259 


>rKM()TKS   OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

and  liis  wliok-  w  i/.cmd  IuhIv  jolted  about  on  tlie 
(|iiakin^-  scat;  tlir  other  liand  lie  pressed  to  his 
breast,  where  lay  a  package  of  bank-notes, 
\\  ra|)ped  up  in  a  bit  of  newspaper.  Tchcrtopkha- 
noir  sat  hhe  a  statue,  merely  turned  his  eyes  about 
him,  and  took  the  air  into  his  lungs  in  deep 
breaths:  a  dagger  j)rojccted  from  his  belt. 

Look  out  foi-  thyself  now,  thou  villain-sepa- 
rator! he  muttei-ed,  as  they  emerged  upon  the 
highway. 

He  Iiad  entrusted  his  house  to  Perfishka,  the 
page,  and  to  the  peasant  who  acted  as  his  cook,  a 
deaf  old  woman,  whom  he  had  taken  under  his 
protection  out  of  compassion. 

"  I  shall  return  to  vou  on  ^Falek-Adel," — he 
shouted  to  them  in  farewell, — "  or  I  shall  not  re- 
tui-n  at  all!  " 

"  Thou  mightest,  at  least,  many  me,  T  think!  " 
— jested  Perfishka,  nudging  the  old  woman  in 
the  ribs  with  his  elbow. — "Anyhow, — we. shall 
never  see  the  master  again,  and  otherwise,  thou 
Avilt  certainly  exjjire  with  tedium!  " 

IX 

A  YEA  If.  jxissed a  whole  year:  no  news 

arrived  of  Pantelei  Eremyeitch.  The  old  woman 
died:  Peilishka  himself  was  preparing  to  aban- 
don the  house  and  betake  himself  to  the  town, 
whither  he  was  })eiug  lured  by  his  cousin,  who  was 

260 


THE   END   OF   TCIIEHTOPKIIAXOFF 

living  tilt  re  as  ussistaiil  lo  a  liaii-dresser, — wlicn, 
suddenly,  a  rumour  became  current  that  tlie  mas- 
ter was  coming  back!  The  deacon  of  the  ])arish 
had  received  a  letter  from  Pantelei  Eremyeitch 
himself,  in  which  the  latter  informed  him  of  his 
intention  to  come  to  Bezsonovo,  and  recpiested 
him  to  notify  his  servants,  in  order  that  the 
proper  reception  miglit  be  made  ready.  These 
words  Perfislika  understood  in  the  sense  that  he 
must  wipe  off  a  little  of  tlie  dust;  he  had  not  much 
faith  in  the  accuracy  of  the  news,  however:  but 
he  was  forced  to  the  conviction  that  the  deacon 
had  told  the  truth  when,  a  few  days  later,  Pan- 
telei P^remyeitch  himself,  in  person,  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  court-yard  of  the  manor-house, 
mounted  on  JNIalek-Adel. 

Perfishka  rushed  to  his  master,  and,  holding  his 
stirrup,  attempted  to  assist  him  in  alighting  from 
his  horse ;  but  the  hitter  sprang  off  unaided,  swept 
a  triumphant  glance  around  him,  and  exclaimed 
in  a  loud  voice:  "  1  said  that  I  would  find  Malek- 
Adel,  and  I  have  found  him,  to  the  discomfiture 
of  my  enemies  and  of  Fate  itself!  "  Perfishka 
advanced  to  kiss  his  hand,  but  Tchertopkhanoff 
paid  no  heed  to  his  servant's  zeal.  Leading  Ma- 
lek-Adel  after  him  by  the  bridle  he  wended  his 
way  with  long  strides  to  the  stable.  Perfishka 
scrutinised  his  master  with  more  attention — and 
quailed: — "  Okh,  how  thin  and  old  he  has  grown 
in  the  course  of  the  year — and  how  stern  and  grim 

261 


MK.MOIRS   OF  A    SPORTSMAN 

liis  i'licc  lias  bcconiu!  "  Vet  it  would  have  seemed 
fittin«^-  lliat  Paiitelei  Eremyeitch  should  rejoice, 
ill  view  of  the  fact  that  he  had  accomplished  his 
oil  jcct ;  and  lie  tlid  rejoice,  as  a  matter  of  fact .... 
and.  nevertlieless,  Perfishka  quailed  and  even  felt 
afraid.  Tchertopkhanoff  jjlaced  the  horse  in  his 
former  stall,  slai)pcd  him  gently  on  the  crupper, 
and  said:  "  Now,  then,  thou  art  at  home  again! 
Look  out!  .  .  .  ."  On  tliat  same  day  he  hired 
a  trustwortliy  watchman,  an  untaxable,  landless 
peasant,  established  himself  once  more  in  his  own 
rooms,  and  began  to  live  as  of  yore.  ... 

Hut  not  altogether  as  of  yore Of  this, 

however,  later  on. 

On  the  day  following  his  return,  Paiitelei  Ere- 
myeitch summoned  Perfishka  to  his  presence, and, 
in  tile  absence  of  any  other  companion,  began  to 
nan-ate  to  him — without  losing  the  sense  of  his 
own  dignity,  of  course,  and  in  a  bass  voice — in 
what  manner  he  had  succeeded  in  finding  JNIalek- 
Adel.  While  the  story  was  in  progress,  Tcher- 
topkhanoif  sat  with  his  face  to  the  ^vindow,  smok- 
ing the  pipe  of  a  long  Turkish  tchibiik,  while 
I'erfishka  sUxkI  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  with 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  and  gazing  respect- 
fully at  the  back  of  his  master's  head,  listened  to 
the  story  of  how,  after  many  fruitless  efforts  and 
l)eregri nations,  Pantelei  Eremyeitch  had,  at  last, 
arrived  at  the  fair  in  Romny,  alone,  Avithout  the 
Jew  Leiba,  who,  through  weakness  of  character, 

202 


TH^   END   OF   TCHERTOPKIIAXOl  F 

luul  not  lield  out  and  had  deserted  him;  how,  on 
the  fii'tli  (hiv,  wlien  he  was  ah-eadv  on  tlie  |)<)iiit  oi' 
departiiig,  he  had  passed,  for  the  hist  time,  al()n<^ 
tlie  rows  of  carts,  and  Iiad  suddenly  espied,  anion «^" 
tliree  otlier  horses  hitched  to  the  •  canvas  feed- 
trough — had  espied  ^lalek-Adel!  How  he  liad 
recognised  liim  on  the  instant, — and  how  ]\lalek- 
Adel  had  also  recognised  him,  had  begun  to 
whinny  and  paw  the  earth  with  his  lioof . — "  And 
he  was  not  with  the  kazak," — pursued  Tchertop- 
khanofF,  still  without  turning  his  head,  and  in  the 
same  bass  voice  as  before, — "  but  with  a  gipsy 
horse-dealer;  naturally,  I  immediately  seized  on 
my  horse,  and  tried  to  recover  it  by  force;  but  the 
beast  of  a  gipsy  set  up  a  howd,  as  though  he  were 
being  scalded,  and  began  to  swear,  in  the  hearing 
of  the  whole  market-place,  that  he  had  bought  the 
horse  from  another  gipsy,  and  wanted  to  produce 
his  witnesses.  ...  I  spat — and  paid  him  money : 
devil  take  him!  For  me  the  chief  thing,  the 
precious  thing,  was  that  I  had  found  my  friend, 
and  had  recovered  my  S2:)iritual  peace.  But,  seest 
thou,  I  had  grabbed  a  kazak,  as  the  Jew  Leiba 
put  it,  in  the  Karat chevoe  district, — 1  had  taken 
him  for  my  thief,- — and  had  smashed  in  his  whole 
ugly  phiz;  but  the  kazak  turned  out  to  be  the  son 
of  a  priest,  and  was  infamous  enough  to  wring 
one  hundred  and  twenty  rubles  from  me.  Well, 
money  is  a  thing  that  can  be  acquired;  but  the 
Xn-uicipal  point  is,  that  ]Malek-Adel  is  with  me 

263 


MK.MOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

once  more!  Now  I  am  liappy — I  shall  enjoy 
tran(|iiillity.  And  here  are  thy  instnietions,  Por- 
i'l'n  :  .just  as  soon  as  thou  shalt  heliokl  a  kaziik 
in  the-  nciuhhourhood — whieh  Ciod  forhid! — run 
and  I'etelinie  niv  "un  that  verv  second,  without 
utterino-  out-  word,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  act!  " 

'IMuis  spake  Pantelei  Eremyeitch  Tchertop- 
kliaiioff':  this  was  what  his  lips  expressed;  hut  he 
was  not  so  trancjuil  at  heart  as  he  asserted. 

Alas!  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  was  not  fully 
con\inee(l  that  the  horse  he  had  brought  home  was 
really  Malek-Adel. 

X 

A  DIFFICULT  time  began  for  Pantelei  Eremye- 
itch. Tranquillity  was  precisely  the  thing  which 
he  enjoyed  least  of  all.  (xood  days  did  come,  it  is 
true:  the  doubt  which  had  assailed  him  seemed  to 
him  nonsense,  he  thrust  from  him  the  awkward 
thought  as  he  would  an  importunate  fly,  and  even 
laughed  at  himself;  but  he  had  his  bad  days 
also:  the  persistent  thought  began  again  to  prey 
stealthily  on  his  lieart  and  to  gnaw  at  it,  like  a 
mouse  under  the  floor, — and  he  tormented  himself 
keenly,  and  in  secret.  In  the  course  of  that  mem- 
orable day  on  which  he  had  found  JNIalek-Adel, 
Tchertojjkhanoff'  had  felt  only  blissful  joy  .... 
but  on  the  following  morning,  when,  under  the 
low  j)enthouse  of  the  posting-station,  he  began  to 
saddle  his  treasure-trove,  close  to  which  lie  had 

264 


THE   END   OF    rciIERTOPKHANOlF 

passed  the  night — something  stung  him  for  the 
first  time.  .  .  .  He  merely  shook  his  head — hut 
the  seed  was  sown.  In  the  course  of  his  home- 
ward journey  (it  lasted  for  about  a  week) ,  doubts 
awoke  rarely  within  him :  they  became  more  pow- 
erful and  distinct  as  soon  as  he  had  reached  his 
Bezsonovo,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself  in  the 
place  where  the  former,  the  indubitable  INIalek- 
Adel  had  dwelt.  .  .  .  On  the  road  he  had  ridden 
mainly  at  a  foot-pace,  at  a  jog-trot,  gazing  about 
him  on  all  sides,  had  smoked  his  tobacco  from  a 
short  pipe,  and  had  indulged  in  no  meditations, 
unless  it  were  to  say  to  himself,  "  Whatever  the 
TchertopkhanofFs  want,  that  they  get ! "  and 
grin ;  but  A\'hen  he  got  home,  it  was  quite  a  differ- 
ent matter.  All  this,  of  course,  he  kept  to  him- 
self: his  pride  alone  forbade  his  displaying  his 
inward  trepidation.  He  would  have  "  rent  asun- 
der "  any  one  who  had  even  distantly  hinted  that 
Malek-Adel  did  not  appear  to  be  the  former 
horse;  he  accepted  congratulations  on  his  "  lucky 
find "  from  the  few  persons  with  whom  he 
chanced  to  come  in  contact;  but  he  did  not  seek 
these  congratulations,  and  avoided  intercourse 
with  people  more  assiduously  than  ever — which 
is  a  bad  sign !  He  was  almost  constantly  putting 
Malek-Adel  through  his  examination,  if  one  may 
so  express  it;  he  would  ride  off  on  him  to  some 
extremely  distant  spot  in  the  fields,  and  put  him 
to  the  test;  or  he  would  creep  stealthily  into  the 

265 


MEMOIKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAX 

stable,  l(K'k  tlic  door  beliind  him,  and,  placing  the 
horse's  head  before  him,  would  gaze  into  his  eyes, 
askiim'  in  a  whis])er:  "  xVrt  thou  he^  Art  thou  he? 
^Art  thou  hef  .  .  .  ."  or  he  would  stare  at  him  in 
silence,  and  so  intently,  foi-  whole  hoin's  at  a 
stretch,  now  rejoicing  and  muttering:  "  Yes! 
'T  is  he!  Of  course,  'tis  he!  " — again  perplexed 
and  disconcerted. 

And  TchertopkhanofF  was  perturbed  not  so 
much  by  the  ])hy.sical  dissimilarity  between  that 
^lalek-Adel  and  this  one — it  was  not  so  very 
great:  that  one's  mane  and  tail  seemed  to  have 
been  thinner,  his  ears  more  pointed,  his  cannon- 
bones  shorter,  and  his  eyes  brighter, — moreover, 
that  might  only  seem  to  be  the  case;  but  what 
troubled  'J'chertopkhanofF  was,  so  to  speak,  the 
moral  dissimilarity.  That  one  had  different 
habits,  his  whole  moral  nature  was  unlike.  For 
example:  that  ]Malek-Adel  had  been  wont  to 
glance  round  and  whinny  slightly  ever}^  time 
TchertopkhanofF  entered  the  stable;  but  this  one 
went  on  munching  his  hay,  as  though  nothing 
were  ha2)pening- — or  dozed  with  drooping  head. 
Neither  of  them  stirred  from  the  spot  when  their 
master  sprang  from  the  saddle;  but  that  one, 
when  lie  was  called,  immediately  advanced  toward 
the  voice, — while  this  one  continued  to  stand 
stock-still.  TJiat  one  galloped  with  equal  swift- 
ness, but  jumped  higher  and  further;  this  one  had 
a  more  undulating  gait  when  walking,  but  jolted 

26G 


THE   END   OF   TCHERTOPKHANOFF 

more  on  a  trot,  and  sometimes  interfered  witli  his 
shoes — that  is  to  say,  struck  the  hind  shoe  against 
the  fore  shoe;  iJuit  one  never  had  such  a  disgrace- 
ful trick — God  forbid!  This  one,  so  it  seemed  to 
TchertopkhiinofF,  was  forever  twisting  his  ears, 
— wliile  with  the  other  the  contrary  was  the  case : 
lie  w^ould  lay  one  ear  back,  and  keep  it  so, — watch- 
ing his  master!  TJiat  one,  as  soon  as  he  saw  that 
there  was  dirt  around  him,  would  immediately 
tap  on  the  wall  of  his  stall  with  his  hind  foot ;  but 
this  one  did  not  mind  if  the  manure  acciunulated 
up  to  his  very  belly.  That  one,  if  he  were  placed 
head  on  to  the  wind,  for  example, — would  im- 
mediately begin  to  inhale  with  all  his  lungs,  and 
shake  himself,  but  this  one  would  simply  snort; 
that  one  was  disturbed  by  dampness  foreboding 
rain — this  one  cared  nothing  for  it.  .  .  .  This 
one  was  coarser,  coarser!  And  this  one  had  no 
charm,  as  that  one  had,  and  was  hard-mouthed- 
there  was  no  denying  it!  The  other  was  a  pleas- 
ing horse — while  this  one  .... 

This  was  the  way  things  sometimes  seemed  to 
Tchertopkhanoff,  and  these  reflections  bred  bit- 
terness in  him.  On  the  other  hand,  there  were 
times  when  he  would  launch  his  steed  at  full 
gallop  over  some  unploughed  field  or  make  liim 
leaj)  to  tlie  very  bottom  of  a  ravine  washed  out  by 
the  rains  and  leap  back  again  straight  uj)  the 
steep,  and  his  heart  would  swoon  within  him  for 
rapture,  a  thui'<lerous  lialloo  would  burst  from 

267 


.MK.MOIKS   OF    A    SPORTSMAN 

liis  lips,  and  hf  knew  for  a  certainty  that  he  had 
under  hiin  tlie  genuine,  in(hi])itahle  Malek-xVdel, 
i'ov  wluii  other  horse  was  eapahle  of  doing  what 

this  one  (hd  .'' 

Hut  even  so.  errors  and  eahiniities  were  not 
hiekino-.  Tlie  prolonged  search  for  Malek-Adel 
had  cost  Tehertopkhanoit"  a  great  deal  of  money: 
he  no  longer  (h'eanied  of  the  Kostroma  hounds, 
and  rode  ahout  the  country-side  in  sohtude,  as  of 
vore.  Antl  lo,  one  morning,  about  five  versts 
from  Rezs6no\(),  Tchertopkhanofi'  ran  across 
tliat  same  princely  hunting-train  before  which  he 
had  pranced  in  so  dashing  a  manner  a  year  and  a 
half  before.  And  this  incident  must  needs  hap- 
pen :  precisely  as  on  that  other  day,  so  now,  a  grey 
liare  leaped  out  in  front  of  the  hounds  from  under 
the  hedge  on  the  slope  of  a  hill ! 

"Tallvho!  tallvho!"— The  whole  hunt  fairly 
dashed  onward,  and  Tchertopkluinoff  dashed  on 
also — only  not  with  them,  but  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred paces  to  one  side  of  them — precisely  as  on 
the  former  occasion.  A  tremendous  gully  in- 
tersected the  declivity  on  a  slant,  and,  rising 
higher  and  higher,  gradually  contracted,  in- 
tercepting Tchert()])khanoff 's  road.  At  the  point 
where  he  was  ol)lige(l  to  leap  it — and  where  he 
actually  had  leaped  it  eighteen  months  pre- 
viously— it  was  still  eight  paces  in  width,  and  a 
couple  of  fathoms  in  de])th.  In  antici])ation  of 
a   triumph, — of  a   triumph   so   miraculously  re- 

268 


THE   END   OF   TC'IIEKTOPKIIAXOFF 

peated, — Tchertojiklianof!'  l)cgan  to  cackle  victo- 
riously, brandishing  his  kazak  whip;  the  hunts- 
men galloped  on,  never  taking  their  eyes  from  the 
hold  horseman, — his  horse  was  flying  forward  like 
an  arrow, — and  now,  the  gully  is  right  in*f  ront  of 
his  nose!  Come,  come,  at  a  bound,  as  before!  .... 

Eut  Malek-Adel  balked  abrupth^  wheeled  to 
the  left,  and  galloped  along  the  brink,  jerk  his 
head  to  the  side  as  TchertopkhanofF  might,  in  the 
direction  of  the  gully.  .  .  . 

The  fact  was,  he  had  turned  cowardly,  he  had 
no  confidence  in  himself! 

Then  Tchertopkhanoff ,  all  glowing  with  shame 
and  wrath,  almost  in  tears,  dropped  the  reins  and 
urged  the  horse  straight  ahead,  up-hill,  away, 
away  from  those  sportsmen,  if  only  that  he  might 
avoid  hearing  how  they  jeered  at  him,  if  only  that 
he  might  escape  as  speedily  as  possible  from  their 
accursed  eyes! 

With  flanks  covered  with  stripes,  all  bathed  in 
foam,  ^[alek-Adel  galloped  home,  and  Tchertop- 
khanofF immediately  locked  himself  up  in  his  own 
room. 

"  No,  it  is  not  he,  it  is  not  my  friend !  That  one 
would  have  broken  his  neck, — but  he  would  not 
have  betrayed  me!  " 

XI 

The  following  incident  definitively  "  finished  " 
TchertopkhanofF,  as  the  saying  is.     ^Mounted  on 

269 


AIK^rOTRS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

Malek-A(kl.  lit-  was  one  day  making  his  way 
throuoli  the  l):ick-yar(ls  of  tlie  ecclesiastical  set- 
tlement snrroiinding  the  chnrch  to  whose  parish 
the  hamlet  of  Bezsonovo  pertained.  With  his 
kazak  cap  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes,  bend- 
ing forward,  and  with  both  hands  resting  on  the 
saddle-how.  he  was  slowly  advancing;  everything 
was  cheerless  and  perturbed  in  his  soul.  All  at 
once,  some  one  called  him  by  name. 

lie  (hew  up  liis  horse,  raised  his  head,  and  be- 
held his  correspondent  the  deacon.  With  a  dark- 
brown  three-cornered  hat  on  his  dark-brown  locks 
j)laited  in  a  small  pig-tail,  arrayed  in  a  kaftan  of 
yellowish  nankeen  girt  considerably  lower  than 
the  waist  with  a  fragment  of  sky-blue  stuff,  the 
servitor  of  the  altar  had  come  out  to  visit  his 
"  little  granary,"  and,  catching  sight  of  Pan- 
telei  Eremyeitch, considered  it  his  duty  to  express 
his  respects  to  him, — and,  incidentally,  to  get 
.something  out  of  him.  It  is  a  well-understood 
fact  that  ecclesiastical  persons  never  enter  into 
conversation  with  laymen  without  some  ulterior 
motive  of  that  sort. 

But  Tchertopkhanoff  was  in  no  mood  to  attend 
to  the  deacon;  he  barely  returned  his  salutation, 
and,  grumbling  something  through  his  teeth,  he 
was  already  flourishing  his  kazak  whip. 

"But  w^hat  a  superb  horse  you  have!" — the 
deacon  hastened  to  add: — "  really,  vou  mav  con- 
gratulate  yourself  on   it.      Of  a  truth,   you   are 

270 


THE   END   OF   TCITEHTOrKlIAXOKF 

a  man  of  wonderful  mind;  simply,  like  unto  ii 
lion!" — The  deacon  was  renowned  for  his  elo- 
quence— which  greatly  vexed  the  father-priest, 
whom  Fate  had  not  endowed  witli  the  gift  of 
words:  even  vodka  did  not  loosen  his  tongue. — 
"  You  have  been  deprived  of  one  animal,  tlirough 
the  machinations  of  evil-doers," — went  on  the 
deacon, — "  and,  not  in  the  least  discouraged,  but, 
on  the  contrarv,  relying  still  more  firmlv  on  I)i- 
vine  Providence,  you  have  procured  for  yourself 
another  quite  as  good,  and  even  better,  I  think 
for  .  .  .  ." 

"  What  nonsense  art  thou  prating?  " — broke 
in  Tchertopkhanoff  angrily:  "What  dost  thou 
mean  by  another  horse?  This  is  the  identical  one: 
this  is  Malek-Adel.  ...  1  hunted  him  up.  Thou 
art  babbling  at  random.  ..." 

"Eh!  eh!  eh!  eh!" — ejaculated  the  deacon, 
with  pauses  between,  and  as  though  prolonging 
his  words,  running  his  fingers  through  his  beard, 
and  surveying  Tchertopkhanoff  with  his  bright, 
greedy  eyes. — "  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir? 
Your  horse  was  stolen,  if  God  gives  me  memory, 
a  couple  of  weeks  after  the  Feast  of  the  Inter- 
cession ^  last  year,  and  now  we  are  at  the  end  of 
November." 

"  Well,  then,  and  what  of  that?  " 

The  deacon  still  continued  to  pla}^  with  his 
beard. — "  It  means  that  more  than  a  year  has 

^October  I,  O.  S.;  1  i,  N.  S.— Tuansi.ator. 

271 


MK.MOIHS  OF  A  siHmTs:srAX 

elapsed  since  that  time,  and  your  horse  was  then 
a  ilappled  "rev  as  he  is  now;  he  has  even  grown 
(hirker.  llow  al>oiit  tliat^"  Grev  horses  turn  very 
white  ill  oiif  year. 

Teliertopkhanoft"  shuddered  ....  it  was  just 
as  tli()u«4li  some  one  had  pricked  liis  heart  with  a 
spear.  And.  in  fact,  grey  horses  do  change  col- 
ourl  How  was  it  that  so  simple  a  thought  had 
not  entered  his  head  up  to  that  moment? 

"  Tliou  damned  pig-tail!^  Get  out!" — he 
yelled  suddenly,  his  eyes  flashing  with  fury — and 
instantly  vanished  from  the  sight  of  the  as- 
tounded deacon. 

^^'ell!    All  was  at  an  end! 

Kvervthing  was  reallv  at  an  end  now%  every- 
thing  had  hurst,  the  last  card  was  trumped! 
Everything  had  crashed  into  ruin  at  that  one 
phrase:  "  They  turn  white!  " 

Grey  horses  turn  white ! 

Gallop,  gallop,  thou  accursed  one!  Thou  canst 
not  gallop  away  from  that  word! 

Tchertopkhanoif  dashed  home,  and  again 
locked  himself  up. 

XII 

That  this  wretched  nag  was  not  JSIalek-Adel; 
that  not  the  slightest  likeness  existed  bet^veen  him 
and  ^lalek-Adel;  that  any  man  who  had  the  least 

'  Ecclesiastics  in  Russia  all  wear  their  hair  lonj;,  and,  as  described 
in  this  story,  often  braid  it  to  keep  it  out  of  the  way,  in  private  life. 

—  TUANSLATOK. 


TIIK    END   OF   T(  irKKTOPKirAXOKF 

sense  must  have  perceived  this  at  the  very  first 
glance;  that  he,  Pantelei  Tchertopkluinoff",  had 
deceived  himself  in  the  most  vulgar  manner — no! 
That  he  had  deliberately,  with  premeditation 
cheated  himself,  had  lowered  that  haze  over  him- 
self— there  now  remained  not  the  faintest  doubt! 
Tchertopkhanoff  ])aeed  back  and  forth  in  his 
room,  wheeling  on  his  heels  as  he  reached  each 
wall,  exactly  as  a  wild  beast  does  in  a  cage.  His 
pride  was  suffering  intolerably;  but  it  was  not 
wounded  pride  alone  which  was  harrying  him: 
despair  had  taken  possession  of  him,  fury  was 
choking  him,  the  thirst  for  vengeance  was  kindled 
witliin  him.  But  against  whom?  On  whom  was 
he  to  revenge  himself?  The  Jew,  Yaff,  ^lasha, 
the  deacon,  the  thieving  kazak,  all  his  neighbours, 
the  whole  w^orld,  himself  in  conclusion?  His 
mind  became  confused.  His  last  card  had  been 
trumped !  ( This  comparison  pleased  him. )  And 
again  he  was  the  most  insignificant,  the  most  de- 
spised of  men,  a  general  laughing-stock,  a  ridicu- 
lous fool,  a  thorough-going  idiot,  an  object  of 
derision  to — the  deacon !  !  .  .  .  He  imagined  that 
he  could  picture  clearljr  to  himself  how  that  vile 
pig-tail  w^ould  take  to  telling  about  the  grey  horse, 
about  the  stupid  gentleman.  .  .  .  O  damn  it!  .  .  . 
In  vain  did  Tchertopkhanoff  strive  to  suppress 
the  rising  bile;  in  vain  did  he  strive  to  convince 

himself   that   that   horse, although    not 

Malek-Adel,  was  every  whit  as  good  as  he,  and 

273 


.MKMOIKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

Fiiiiiht  SLr\(.'  him  for  iiianv  years:  lie  immediatelv 
repelled  this  thought  with  vehemence,  as  though 
it  contained  a  fresh  insult  for  that  ]Malek-Adel 
toward  \\hoMi  he  ali'eady,  and  without  that,  felt 

himself  to  blame The  idea!    Like  a  blind 

man,  like  a  dolt,  he  had  placed  that  carrion,  that 
jade,  on  a  le\  el  w  ith  him,  with  3Ialek-Adel!  And 
as  for  the  service  which  that  vile  nag  might  still 
render  him  .  .  .  .  why,  would  he  ever  deign  to 
mount  it^  \ot  for  anything  on  earth!  Never!  ! 
....  He  would  give  it  to  a  Tatar,'  to  the  dogs 
to  eat — that  was  all  it  was  good  for.  .  .  .  Yes! 
that  would  be  best  of  all ! 

Foi-  more  than  two  hours  Tchertopkhanoff 
wandered  about  his  room. 

"Perfishka!" — he  suddenly  issued  his  com- 
mand. '■  Go  to  the  dram-shop  this  very  instant; 
bring  hither  a  gallon  and  a  half  of  vodka!  Dost 
hear  me?  A  gallon  and  a  half  of  vodka,  and  be 
(juiek  about  it!  Let  the  vodka  be  here  instantly, 
and  standing  on  my  table!  " 

The  vodka  made  its  appearance  without  delay 
on  Pantelei  Eremyeitch's  table,  and  he  began  to 
drink! 

XIII 

Any  one  who  had  looked  at  Tchertopkhanoff 
then,  any  one  wlio  could  have  witnessed  the  grim 
\iciousness  wlierewith  he  drained  glass  after  glass, 

'  Tlie  Tatirs  are  extremely  fond  of  horseflesh.  In  St.  Petersburg 
and  Moscow  (where  thej'  pursue  tlie  avocations  of  old-clothes  men 
and  \\aiters)  horse-meat  shops  exist  for  their  benefit. — Tkansi^vtor. 

274 


THE   END   OF   TClIEKTOPKnAxOEF 

would  certainly  have  felt  an  involuntary  terror. 
Night  came;  a  tallow  candle  hurned  dimly  on  the 
table.  Tchertopkhanoff'  liad  ceased  to  rove  from 
corner  to  corner;  he  sat,  all  red  in  the  face,  with 
dimmCvl  eyes,  wliich  he  sometimes  lowered  to  the 
floor,  sometimes  riveted  persistently  on  the  dark 
window;  he  would  rise  to  his  feet,  ])oin'  himself 
out  some  vodka,  drink  it  off,  then  sit  down  again, 
again  fix  his  eyes  on  one  point,  and  never  stir — 
except  that  his  breathing  grew  quick,  and  his  face 
more  scarlet.  It  seemed  as  though  some  decision 
were  ripening  within  him,  which  daunted  him, 
but  to  ^vhich  he  w'as  gradually  accustoming  liim- 
self ;  one  and  the  same  thought  importunately  and 
unintermittently  moved  up  ever  closer  and  closer, 
one  and  the  same  image  delineated  itself  ever 
more  and  more  clearly  ahead;  and  in  his  heart, 
under  the  inflaming  pressure  of  heavy  intoxica- 
tion, the  irritation  of  wrath  was  replaced  by  a 
feeling  of  flerceness,  and  a  grin  which  boded  no 
good  made  its  appearance  on  his  lips. 

"  Well,  all  the  same,  't  is  time!  " — he  said,  in  a 
businesslike,  almost  bored  tone: — "'tis  time  to 
stop  taking  my  ease!  " 

He  drank  off  the  last  glass  of  the  vodka,  got 
his  pistol  from  under  his  bed, — -the  same  pistol 
from  which  he  had  fired  at  INIasha, — loaded  it,  put 
several  percussion-caps  in  his  pocket,  "  in  case  of 
need,"  and  set  off*  for  the  stable. 

The  watcliman  stai'ted  to  i-un  to  liini  when  he 
began  to  o^x^n  the  door,  hut  he  shouted  at  him; 

275 


:mem()iks  or  a  sportsman 

'•  It  is  11  l)«)st  iiol  thou  sec?  Ik'gone!"  The 
w  atclimaii  withch'cw  a  little  to  one  side.  "  Go  off 
to  thy  hedl"  TehertopkluiiiofF  shouted  at  him: 
•  there  \s  no  neeil  for  thee  to  stand  on  guard 
liere!  A  fine  wonder,  what  a  treasure!  "  He  en- 
tered the  stahle.  :Malek-xVdel  ....  the  false 
Malek-Adel,  was  lying  on  the  litter.  Tchertop- 
khiinoft'  gave  him  a  kick,  saying:  "  Get  up,  thou 
crow  !  "  Then  he  untied  the  halter  from  the  man- 
ger, took  oft'  the  hlanket  and  flung  it  on  the 
ground,  and  roughly  turning  the  obedient  horse 
round  in  the  stall,  he  led  it  forth  into  the  yard, 
and  from  the  yard  into  the  open  fields,  to  the  in- 
tense amazement  of  the  watchman,  who  could  not 
possibly  comprehend  where  the  master  was  going 
l)v  niuht  with  the  bridleless  horse  in  tow.  He 
was  afraid  to  ask  him,  of  course;  so  merely  fol- 
lowed him  with  his  eyes  until  he  disappeared  at 
the  turn  of  the  road  which  led  to  the  neighbour- 


inir  forest. 


XIV 


TcHEKTOPKHANOFF  Walked  witli  huge  strides, 
neither  halting  nor  looking  behind  him.  Malek- 
Adel — w'e  shall  call  him  by  that  name  to  the  end — 
followed  submissi\ely  in  his  wake.  The  night 
was  fairly  light;  Tchertopkhanoff  could  distin- 
guish the  indented  outline  of  the  forest,  which 
rose  blackly  in  front  of  him,  like  a  dark  blotch. 
Thus  embraced  bv  the  nocturnal  chill,  he  cer- 

270 


THE   END   OF    ICTTKirrOPKHANOFE 

tainlv  would  have  felt  the  intoxicatini*-  effeets  of 
the  vodka  lie  had  drunk,  had  it  not  heen  ....  had 
it  not  heen  for  another,  a  more  powerful  intoxi- 
eation,  whieh  had  taken  complete  possession  of 
him.  His  head  grew  heavy,  the  blood  throbbed 
with  a  roar  in  his  throat  and  ears,  but  he  walked 
on  firmly,  and  knew  where  he  was  going. 

He  had  decided  to  kill  JNIalek-Adel ;  all  day 

long  he  had   thought   of  nothing   else 

Now  he  had  reached  a  decision! 
•  He  j^roceeded  to  this  deed,  not  precisely  with 
composure,  but  with  confidence,  irrevocably,  as  a 
man  proceeds  who  is  obeying  a  sense  of  duty.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  very  "  simple  matter  "  to  annihi- 
late this  pretender,  he  would  thereby  be  quits  with 
"  everybody,"  would  also  punisli  himself  for  his 
stupidity,  justify  himself  to  liis  genuine  friend, 
and  demonstrate  to  the  whole  world  (Tchertop- 
khiinoff  was  greatly  concerned  about  "  the  whole 
world")  that  no  one  could  jest  with  him.  .  .  . 
But  the  principal  thing  was, — that  he  meant  to 
annihilate  himself  along  with  the  pretender,  for 
what  w^as  there  now  left  for  him  to  live  for?  How 
all  this  had  stowed  itself  awav  in  his  head,  and 
whv  it  seemed  to  him  so  simi)le,  it  is  not  easy,  al- 
though  it  is  not  utterly  impossible,  to  explain: 
wounded,  solitary,  without  a  single  human  soul 
who  was  near  to  him,  without  a  copper  fartliing, 
and  with  his  blood  lieated  by  liquor,  to  boot,  he  was 
in  a  condition  bordering  on  insanity,  and  there 

277 


MKMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMxVX 

can  be  no  duubl  tlial,  in  the  most  absurd  freaks 
of  insane  people,  tliere  is  a  sort  of  looie  and  even 
i-iyht  in  their  eyes.  As  to  tlie  right,  Tchertopkha- 
nofl'  was.  at  any  rate,  fully  convinced;  he  did  not 
hesitate,  he  made  haste  to  execute  the  sentence  on 
the  criminal,  without,  however,  clearly  rendering 
himsell'  an  account  as  to  whom,  precisely,  he  was 
calling  1)\  that  name.  .  .  .  Truth  to  tell,  he  had 
reflected  vvvy  little  on  what  he  was  about  to  do. 
"  I  must  make  an  end  of  it — I  must,"  was  what  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself,  dully  and  sternly:  "  I 
must  make  a!i  end  of  it!  " 

And  the  innocent  culprit  trotted  obediently 
behind  him.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no  pity  in  Tcher- 
topkhanoff's  heart. 

XV 

X(yr  far  from  the  edge  of  the  forest,  whither  he 
was  leading  his  horse,  stretched  a  small  ravine, 
half  overgrown  with  oak  bushes.  Tchertopkha- 
noff  descended  into  it.  .  .  .  j\Ialek-Adel  stum- 
bled and  came  near  falling  on  him. 

"Dost  want  to  crush  me,  damn  thee!" — 
sliouted  Tchertopkhanoff — and,  as  though  de- 
fending himself,  he  jerked  the  pistol  out  of  his 
pocket. 

He  MO  longer  felt  hardness,  but  that  jjeculiar 
\voo(len  rigidity  of  the  emotions  which  is  said  to 
take  possession  of  a  man  before  the  perpetration 
of  a  ci-ime.  But  his  own  voice  frightened  him — 
so  sa\age]y  did  it  resound  bcneatli  the  canopy  of 

•278 


THE   KM)   OF   TCIIKKTOPKIIAXOFF 

the  dark  boughs,  in  the  decaying  and  stilling 
dampness  of  the  forest  ravine!  jNloreover,  in  re- 
ply to  his  exchimation,  some  hirge  bird  or  other 
suddenl}'  began  to  rustle  in  tlie  crest  of  the  tree 
over  his  head.  .  .  .  TchertopkhanofF  shuddered. 
It  was  as  tliough  he  had  aroused  a  witness  to  his 
deed — and  where?  In  this  remote  spot,  where  he 
should  not  have  encountered  a  single  living  crea- 
ture! ... 

"  Begone,  devil,  to  the  four  winds!  " — he  said 
through  his  teeth — and  relintjuishing  JNIalek- 
Adel's  bridle,  he  dealt  him  a  flourishing  blow  on 
the  shoulder  with  the  butt  of  the  pistol.  ^Nlalek- 
Adel  immediately  turned  back,  scrambled  out  of 
the  ravine  ....  and  set  off  at  a  gallop.  But 
the  sound  of  his  hoof -beats  was  not  audible  long. 
The  rising  wind  interfered  and  shrouded  all 
sounds. 

Tchertopkhanoff,  in  his  turn,  slowly  made  his 
way  out  of  the  ravine,  gained  the  edge  of  the  for- 
est, and  trudged  homeward.  He  was  dissatisfied 
with  himself:  the  heaviness  which  he  felt  in  his 
head  and  in  his  heart  diffused  itself  over  all  his 
limbs;  he  strode  onward — angry,  gloomy,  dissat- 
isfied, hungry,  exactly  as  though  some  one  had 
insulted  him,  had  robbed  him  of  his  booty,  his 
food.  .  .  . 

A  suicide  who  has  been  prevented  from  carry- 
ing out  his  intentions  is  acquainted  with  such  sen- 
sations. 

All  at  once,  something  touched  him  from  be- 

270 


MK.MOIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

hind,  on  the  shoulder.  He  glanced  round.  .  .  . 
Malek-A(K1  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  lie  iiad  followed  his  master,  he  had 
touched  him  with  his  muzzle,  he  had  announced 
his  presence.   .   .   . 

"  Ah !  "  —  screamed  TchertopkhanofF,  —  "  so 
thou  hast  come  thyself,  of  thine  own  accord,  to 
tliy  deatlil     Then  take  that!" 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  pulled  out  his 
pistol,  c(K'ked  it,  placed  the  muzzle  to  Malek- 
Adel's  forehead,  and  fired.  .  .  . 

The  poor  horse  sprang  to  one  side,  reared  up 
on  his  hind  legs,  leaped  hack  half  a  score  of  paces, 
and  suddenly  fell  heavily  to  the  ground  and  be- 
gan to  I'attle  hoarsely  in  his  throat,  as  he  writhed 
convulsively  on  the  ground.  .  .  . 

Tchert(^pkhanoff  stopped  up  his  ears  with 
both  hands  and  set  off  on  a  run.  His  knees  gave 
way  beneatli  liim.  Intoxication,  and  furv,  and 
hlind  self-confidence — all  deserted  him  on  the  in- 
stant. Xothing  remained  but  a  feeling  of  shame 
and  disgust,  and  the  consciousness,  the  indubi- 
table consciousness,  that  this  time  he  had  done  for 
himself  also. 


XVI 

Six  weeks  later,  Perfishka  the  page  considered  it 
his  duty  to  stop  the  commissaiy  of  rural  police 
as  the  latter  was  passing  EezscSnovo  manor-house. 

280 


THE   END   OF   TCTTKRTOPKHANOFF 

"  What  dost  thou  want?  " — inquired  tlie  guar- 
dian of  order. 

"  Please,  Your  \Vell-Born,  come  into  our 
house," — repHed  the  page,  with  a  low  bow: 
"  Pantelei  Eremyeitcli  seems  to  be  on  tlie  point 
of  deatli;  and  so,  I  'm  afraid." 

"  What?  He  is  dying?  "  questioned  the  com- 
missary. 

"  Exactly  so,  sir.  At  first  he  drank  vodka 
every  day,  but  now,  you  see,  he  has  taken  to  liis 
bed,  and  has  got  very  ill.  I  don't  suppose  he  can 
understand  anything  now.  He 's  perfectly 
speechless." 

The  commissary  alighted  from  his  cart.  — 
"  Well,  hast  thou  not  been  to  summon  the  priest, 
at  least?  Has  thy  master  made  his  confession? 
Has  he  received  the  Sacrament?  " 

"  No,  sir,  he  has  not." 

The  commissary  of  police  frowned. — "  How 
comes  that,  my  good  fellow?  Is  that  the  proper 
way  to  behave — hey?  Or  dost  not  thou  know  .  .  . 
that  the  responsibility  for  it  is  very  great — hey?  " 

"  But  I  asked  him  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  yesterday,  too,"  put  in  the  intimidated  page, 
— "  '  Do  not  you  command  me,'  says  I,  '  Pan- 
telei  Eremyeitch,  to  run  for  the  priest? ' — '  Hold 
thy  tongue,  fool,'  says  he.  '  Don't  meddle  in 
what  isn't  thy  business.'  And  to-day,  when  I 
began  to  repoi't — he  merely  stared  at  me — and 
twitched  his  moustache." 

281 


MK.MOIKS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

"xVirI  lias  lie  drunk  iiuicli  vodka?" — asked  the 
c'oiiiiiiissarv. 

"  Aw  an  fill  lot! — But  Ix,'  so  good,  Your  Well- 
born, as  to  c-onie  to  his  room." 

"  \\\\],  kad  the  way!  " — growled  the  commis- 
sary, and  I'ollowed  l*erfishka. 

^Vn  astonishing  sight  awaited  him. 

In  the  rear  room  of  the  house,  dark  and  damp, 
on  a  niiseral)le  pallet,  covered  with  a  horse- 
hlanket,  with  a  shaggy  kazak  felt  cloak  in  place 
of  a  pillow,  lay  Tchertopkhanoff ,  no  longer  pale, 
hut  of  a  yellowish-green  hue,  like  a  corpse,  with 
eyes  sunken  heneath  glossy  lids,  with  a  sharpened 
hut  still  crimson  nose  above  his  dishevelled  mous- 
tache, lie  was  lying  arrayed  in  his  inevitable 
kaziik  coat,  with  the  cartridge-cases  on  his  breast, 
and  full  Circassian  trousers.  A  kazak  fur  cap 
with  a  deep  crimson  top  covered  his  forehead  to 
his  very  eyebrows.  In  one  hand  Tchertopkha- 
noff  held  his  kazak  hunting-whip,  in  the  other  an 
embroidered  tobacco-j^ouch,  JNlasha's  last  gift. 
On  the  table  by  the  bedside  stood  an  empty 
liquor-bottle;  and  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  fas- 
tened to  the  wall  with  pins,  two  water-colour 
drawings  were  visible:  one,  so  far  as  could  be  dis- 
cernedj  represented  a  fat  man  wath  a  guitar  in  his 
hands — probably,  Xedopiiiskin;  the  other  de- 
picted a  gallo])ing  horseman The  horse 

resembled  those  fabulous  animals  which  children 
draw    on    walls    and    fences;    but   the    carefully 

282 


THE   END   OF   TCTTERTOPKTIAXOFF 

shaded  dapples  on  its  flanks  and  tlie  cartridge- 
cases  on  the  rider's  breast,  the  pointed  toes  of  his 
boots,  and  his  luige  moustache  left  no  room  for 
doubt :  tlie  sketch  was  intended  to  depict  Pantelei 
Eremyeitch  mounted  on  jNIalek-Adel. 

The  astonished  commissary  of  ])()lice  (hd  not 
know  what  to  do.  Deathly  silence  reigned  in  the 
room.  "  Why,  he  has  already  expired,"  he  said  to 
himself,  and,  raising  his  voice,  he  said: — "Pan- 
telei Eremyeitch!  Hey  there,  Pantelei  Eremye- 
itch!" 

Then  something  remarkable  took  place. 
Tchertopkhanoff 's  eyes  slowly  opened,  the  extin- 
guished pupils  moved  first  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left,  came  to  a  rest  on  the  visitor,  and  saw  him. 
.  .  .  Something  glimmered  in  their  dull  white- 
ness, the  semblance  of  a  glance  made  its  appear- 
ance in  them; — the  lips,  already  blue,  gradually 
parted,  and  a  hoarse,  already  sepulchral  voice 
made  itself  heard. 

"  Pantelei  Tchertopkhanoff,  nobleman  of  an- 
cient lineage,  is  dying;  who  can  hinder  him? — He 
is  indebted  to  no  one,  he  demands  nothing.  .  .  . 
Leave  him,  ye  jjeople!    Begone!  " 

The  hand  wliich  held  the  kazak  whip  made 

an  effort  to  rise In  vain !    The  lips  again 

adhered  to  each  other,  the  eyes  closed,  and  Tcher- 
topkhanoff' lay  as  before  on  his  hard  pallet, 
stretched  out  flat  and  with  his  feet  drawn  close 
together. 

283 


AIKMOIKS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

**  Let  me  kntnv  when  he  is  dead."-- whispered 
the  commissary  of  i)olice  to  Perfislika,  as  he  left 
the  room:  "and  1  think  thou  mightest  go  for 
tlie  priest  now  .  Due  order  must  be  observed, — ^lie 
must  reeeive  Holy  l^nction."  ' 

Tliat  same  (hiy  Perfislika  went  for  the  priest; 
and  on  the  following  morning  he  had  to  notify 
the  commissary  of  police  that  Pantelei  Eremye- 
itch  had  died  that  night. 

At  his  funeral,  his  coffin  was  escorted  by  two 
men:  Perfishka,  the  page,  and  ^Nloshel  Leiba. 
Tlie  news  of  Tchertopkhanoff's  demise  had,  in 
some  manner,  reached  the  Jew;  and  he  had  not 
failed  to  pay  his  last  debt  to  his  benefactor. 

^This  unction  in  the  Eastern  Catholic  Church  is  not  Extreme 
Unction  in  the  sense  of  those  words  in  the  Roman  Church,  although 
it  is  pciieraily  administered  before  death.  In  the  true  spirit  of 
James  v,  1 1— Ij  it  may  be  administered  any  number  of  times  during 
life,  when  a  person  is  ill  and  not  expected  to  die.  'Ihe  full  rite 
calls  for  seven  priests,  but  one  priest  can  administer  it. — Trans- 
lator. 


284 


X 


LIVING  HOLY  RELICS 

O  native  land  of  ])atient  fortitude — 
Land  of  the  Russian  folk  art  thou! 

F.    TlUTCIIEFF. 

A  French  saying  runs:  "  A  dry  fisherman  and 
a  wet  sportsman  are  sorry  sights."  As  -1  have  no 
partiaHly  for  fishing,  I  am  not  able  to  judge  of 
a  fisherman's  feehngs  in  fine,  clear  weather,  and 
to  what  degree  the  satisfaction  afforded  liim  in 
stormy  weather  by  an  abundant  catch  outweighs 
the  unpleasantness  of  being  wet.  But  for  the 
sportsman  rain  is  a  veritable  calamity.  To  pre- 
cisely such  a  calamity  were  Eremyei  and  I  ex- 
posed during  one  of  our  excursions  after  wood- 
cock in  the  Byelovoe  district.  The  rain  had  not 
ceased  falling  since  daybreak.  What  did  not  we 
do  to  escape  from  it!  We  drew  our  rubber  coats 
up  almost  over  our  heads,  and  stood  under  trees, 
so  that  there  might  be  less  dripping.  .  .  .  The 
waterproof  coats  let  the  water  througii  in  the  most 
shameless  manner,  not  to  mention  the  fact  that 
they  interfered  witli  om-  shooting;  while,  al- 
though at  first  it  did  not  appear  to  drip  under  the 
trees,  yet  later  on  the  moisture,  which  had  been 
gradually  accumulating  on  the  foliage,  suddenly 

285 


MKMOIKS   OF  A   SPORTSMxVX 

l)n)kt'  tliioiigli.  cNcrv  branch  showered  down  on 
us  watir  as  llioiigh  from  a  rain-spout,  a  chilly 
stream  maik-  its  way  under  my  neckerchief  and 
trickled  down  my  spine.  .  .  .  AVell,  this  was  "  the 
last  stra^^•  "!  as  Krmolai  was  wont  to  express  him- 
self.— "  Xo,  Piotr  Petrovitch," — he  exclaimed  at 
last.  "  This  is  unendurable!  ....  We  cannot 
hunt  t()-(hiy.  The  dogs'  scent  will  be  drowned 
out;  tlie  ^nns  will  miss  fire.  .  .  .  Phew!  What 
a  mess!  "' 

"  Whiit  is  to  l)e  done?  " — I  asked. 

"  Why,  this. — Let  us  go  to  Alexyeevka.  Per- 
haps you  (h)  not  know  that  there  is  a  farm  there 
which  belongs  to  your  mother;  it  is  eight  versts 
from  here.  We  can  pass  the  night  there,  and  to- 
morrow .  .  .  ." 

"  AVe  can  return  here?  " 

"  No,  not  here.  ...   I  know  some  places  the 

other  side  of  Alexyeevka mucli   better 

places  for  woodcock." 

I  did  not  interrogate  my  faithful  companion  as 
to  wliy  he  liad  not  guided  me  straight  to  those 
places  and  that  same  day  we  reached  ni}'  mother's 
farm,  wliose  existence,  I  must  confess,  I  had  not 
hitherto  suspected.  At  the  farm  there  turned  out 
to  be  a  small,  detached  building,  very  old,  but  not 
inliabited,  and  therefore  clean;  in  it  I  passed  a 
fairly  (juiet  night. 

On  the  following  morning  I  awoke  very  earlj'. 
The  sun  had  only  just  risen;  there  was  not  a  sin- 

280 


t;ivixg  ttot.y  relics 

gle  cloud  in  the  sky;  everything  round  ahoiit  was 
ghstening  with  a  powerful  (l()ul)le  gleam:  tlie 
gleam  oi'  tlie  young  morning  rays,  and  of  the 
heavy  rain  of  the  day  before. — While  my  two- 
wheeled  cart  was  being  harnessed,  I  went  off  for 
a  stroll  in  the  small  garden,  which  had  formerly 
been  a  fruit  orchard,  and  was  now  utterly  run 
wild,  surrounding  tlie  little  wing  on  all  sides  witli 
its  fragrant,  succulent  thickets.  Akh,  how  good 
it  was  in  the  open  air,  beneath  the  clear  sky, 
where  the  larks  were  trilling,  whence  the  silver 
notes  of  their  ringing  voices  showered  down! 
They  had,  probably,  borne  off  drops  of  dew  on 
tlieir  wings,  and  their  songs  seemed  besprinkled 
vvith  dew.  I  even  took  my  liat  from  my  head,  and 
inhaled  joyously,  to  the  full  extent  of  my  kmgs. 
.  .  .  On  the  slope  of  a  small  ravine,  close  beside 
the  wattled  fence,  a  collection  of  beehives  was 
visible;  a  narrow  path  led  to  it,  winding  in  ser- 
pentine fashion  between  dense  walls  of  tall 
steppe-grass  and  nettles,  over  whieli  liung, 
brought  God  knows  whence,  the  sharp-tipped 
stalks  of  dark-green  hemp. 

I  wended  my  way  along  this  path,  and  readied 
the  beehives.  Alongside  them,  stood  a  small 
shed  with  wattled  walls,'  a  so-called  ain.shdnik, 
where  coals  are  stored  for  winter  use.  I  glanced 
in  at  the  half -open  door;  it  was  dark,  still,  dry; 

'  In  the  ceiitrp  and  south  of  Russia,  where  wood  is  scarce,  fences 
and  walls  are  made  of  lrec-l)oughs  interwoven. — Tuansi.atok. 

287 


.AIEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

there  was  an  odour  of  mint  and  sweet-clover.  In 
one  corner  a  platfoi-m  had  been  fitted,  and  on  it, 
covered  witli  a  (luilt,  \ay  a  tiny  figure.  ...  I  was 
on  the  point  of  l)cating  a  retreat  .... 

"  ;Master,  liey,  master!  Piotr  Petrovitch!  " — I 
heard  a  voice,  weak,  slow,  and  hoarse,  like  the  rus- 
thng  of  marsh  sedges. 

1  stopped. 

"  Piotr  Petrovitcli !  Come  hither,  please !  " — 
repeated  the  voice.  It  was  wafted  to  me  from  the 
corner  with  the  platform  which  I  had  noticed. 

I  approached — and  grew  rigid  with  amaze- 
ment. Before  me  lay  a  living  human  being;  but 
what  did  it  mean? 

The  head  was  completely  dried  up,  all  of  one 
bronze  hue, — precisely  like  a  holy  picture  painted 
in  ancient  times;  the  nose  was  as  narrow  as  the 
blade  of  a  knife;  the  lips  were  hardly  visible, — 
only  the  teeth  and  the  eyes  gleamed  white,  and 
from  beneath  the  kerchief  thin  strands  of  j^ellow 
hair  escaped  upon  the  foreliead.  Two  tiny  hands, 
also  bronze  in  colour,  were  moving  by  the  chin,  at 
the  fold  of  the  coverlet,  the  fingers  like  little  sticks 
intertwining  slowly.  I  looked  more  attentively: 
the  face  was  not  only  not  hideous,  it  was  even 
beautiful, — but  terrible,  remarkable.  And  the 
face  seemed  all  the  more  terrible  to  me,  because 
I  saw  that  a  smile  was  striving  ....  striving 
to  spread  over  it, — over  its  metallic  cheeks, — and 
could  not. 

288 


LTVTNC;    ITOLV   RKTJCS 

"  Don't  you  recognise  nic,  master?  " — wliis- 
pered  the  voice  again;  it  seemed  to  evaporate 
from  the  barely-moving  hps. — "  But  how  should 
you! — I  am  Lukerya.  .  .  .  You  remember,  the 
one  who  used  to  lead  the  choral  songs  and  dances 
at  your  mother's,  at  Spasskoe?  ...  I  was  the 
leader  of  the  singers,  as  well;  don't  you  remem- 
ber? " 

"Lukerya!" — 1  exclaimed. — "Art  thou  she? 
Is  it  possible?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  1,  master, — I  am  Lukerya." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  stared  like  one 
stunned  at  that  dark,  motionless  face  with  the 
clear  and  deathly  eyes  riveted  upon  me.  Was  it 
possible?  That  mummy  was  Lukerya,  the  great- 
est beauty  among  all  our  domestics, — tall,  plump, 
white,  and  red, — the  giggler,  the  dancer,  the 
singer!  Lukerya,  the  clever  Lukerya,  to  whom 
all  our  young  men  had  paid  court,  for  whom  I 
myself  had  sighed  in  secret, — I,  a  lad  of  sixteen ! 

"Good  heavens,  Lukerva," — I  said  at  last: — 
"  what  has  liappened  to  thee?  " 

"  Why,  such  a  calamity  has  befallen  me !  But 
do  not  look  at  me  with  aversion,  master,  do  not 
loathe  my  misfortune, — sit  down  on  that  small 
tub  yonder, — come  nearer,  or  you  will  not  be 
able  to  hear  me.  ...  I  have  become  so  loud- 
voiced,  you  see!  ...  .  Well,  and  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you!  How  comes  it  that  you  are  in 
Alexyeevka?  " 

289 


>rEMOTRS   OF  A   SPORTSMxVX 

Liiktrya  .si)()ke  very  softly  and  feebly,  but 
witbout  any  breaks. 

"  Krniolai  tbe  lumter  brougbt  nie  bitber.  .  But 
tell  nie  .   .   .   .  " 

"  I  am  to  tell  you  about  my  misfortune? — Cer- 
tainly, master.  It  liappened  to  me  long  since, — 
six  or  seven  years  am).  Tbev  bad  just  betrotbed 
me  to  Vasilv  PolvakofF, — do  vou  remember,  be 
was  sueb  a  stately,  curly-baired  fellow,^ — be  used 
to  serve  in  yom*  motber's  bouse  as  butler?  But 
you  were  no  longer  in  tbe  country  at  tbat  time; 
you  bad  gone  away  to  ^Moscow  to  study. — Vasily 
and  I  were  very  mucb  in  love  witb  eacb  otber;  I 
tbougbt  of  bim  continually;  and  it  bappened  in 
tbe  spring.  So,  one  nigbt  ...  it  was  not  long 
before  dawn  .  .  .  and  I  coidd  not  sleep:  tbe 
nigbtingale  in  tbe  garden  was  singing  witb  such 

wonderful  sweetness! I  could  bear  it  no 

longer,  so  I  got  up,  and  went  out  on  tbe  porcb  to 
listen  to  it.  It  warbled  and  warbled  .  .  .  and 
suddeidy  it  seemed  to  me  tbat  some  one  was  call- 
ing me  in  Yasya's  voice,  softly,  so:  '  Liisba! '  .  .  .  . 
I  glanced  aside,  and  not  being  fully  awake,  j^ou 
know,  I  made  a  misstep,  straight  from  tbe  land- 
ing, and  flew  down — bang!  on  tbe  ground.  And 
I  did  not  appear  to  liave  burt  myself  badly,  for 
I  soon  rose  and  returned  to  my  chamber.  Only, 
it  was  as  though  something  inside  me — in  my 
belly — had  been  broken.  .  .  .  Let  me  take 
breath for  just  a  minute  ....  master." 

290 


T.IVING   TTOT.Y  REIJCS 

Liikerya  stopped  speaking,  and  1  stared  at  lier 
in  amazement.  Wliat  particukirly  astonnded  me 
was,  that  she  told  her  story  almost  cheerily,  .vith- 
out  any  groans  and  sighs,  without  making  the 
slightest  complaint,  and  without  any  appeal  for 
sympathy. 

"  From  the  moment  of  that  accident," — went 
on  liukerya, — "  I  hegan  to  wither,  to  pine  away; 
I  hegan  to  turn  black ;  it  became  difficult  for  me  to 
walk,  and  I  had  not  full  control  of  my  legs;  I 
could  neither  stand  nor  sit;  I  wanted  to  lie  down 
all  the  time.  I  did  n't  feel  like  either  eating  or 
drinking:  I  grew  worse  and  worse.  Your  motlier, 
in  her  goodness,  showed  me  to  the  doctors,  and 
sent  me  to  the  hospital.  But  I  obtained  no  relief. 
And  not  a  single  doctor  could  even  tell  what  sort 
of  malady  1  liad.  They  did  all  sorts  of  things 
to  me:  they  burned  my  back  with  red-liot  irons, 
they  laid  me  in  cracked  ice — but  it  did  no  good. 

At   last,    I   got    perfectly   ossified Then 

the  gentlemen  decided  that  it  was  useless  to 
treat  me  any  longer,  and  it  was  n't  fitting  that 
a  cripple  should  be  kept  in  the  gentry's  manor- 
house  well,  and  so  they  transferred  me 

hither, — I  have  relatives  here.  And  so  I  live  as 
you  see." 

Again  Lukerya  ceased  speaking,  and  again  she 
tried  to  smile. 

"But  th}^  condition  is  frightful!"  —  I  ex- 
claimed .   .   .  and,   without   knowing   what  more 

291 


MEMOTKS   OF  A   SPOKTSMAX 

to  say,  1  iiujuired: — "And  wliat  alxnit  Vasily 
I'olvakoffV  " — Tt  was  a  very  stupid  question. 

J.ukerya  turned  her  eyes  aside. 

*' What  about  PolyakofF? — He  grieved  and 
nricved, — and  then  he  married  another,  a  girl 
fVoni  (Th'nnoe.  Do  you  know  Gh'nnoe?  It  lies 
not  far  from  us.  Her  name  was  Agrafena.  He 
\\  as  \  cry  i'ond  of  me, — but  he  was  a  young  man, 
\<)ii  see, — lie  eould  not  remain  a  bachelor.  And 
liow  eould  I  be  his  dear  friend?  But  lie  has  found 
foi-  himself  a  good,  kind  wife,- — and  he  has  chil- 
dren. He  lives  there  as  manager  to  a  neiglibour; 
your  mother  gave  him  his  passport,  and  he  \s 
doing  very  well,  thank  God!  " 

"  And  so  thou  liest  here  always  like  this?  " — I 
put  another  question. 

"  And  so  I  lie  here  like  this,  master,  this  is  the 
seventh  year.  In  summer  I  lie  here  in  this  wat- 
tled shed,  and  when  cold  weather  comes  on  they 
carry  me  to  the  anteroom  of  the  bath-house. 
There  I  lie." 

"But  who  tends  on  thee?  Does  any  one  look 
after  thee?" 

"  Why,  there  are  kind  people  here  also.  They 
do  not  desert  me.  And  I  do  not  need  much  look- 
ing after.  As  for  eating — I  eat  hardly  anything, 
and  as  for  water — yonder  it  is,  in  that  jug:  it 
always  stands  filled  with  pure  spring  water.  I 
can  reach  the  jug  for  myself:  I  can  still  use  one 
of  mv  hands.     And  tlien  there  is  a  little  girl,  an 

292 


LIVING  IIOI-Y  KET;rCS 

orplian;  slie  always  gives  iiic  wluit  I  need,  tlwiiiks 

to  her.     She  was  here  a  httle  while  ago 

Did  n't  you  meet  her?  She  's  sueh  a  pretty,  white 
little  thing.  She  brings  nie  flow^ers;  I'm  very 
fond  of  them, — of  flowers,  I  mean.  We  have  no 
garden-flowers  here, — there  were  some,  but  tliey 
have  run  out.  But  the  wild  flowers  are  nice  too, 
you  know ;  they  smell  even  better  than  the  garden - 
flowers.  Take  lilies  of  the  valley,  for  instance 
.  .  .  .  what  can  be  more  agreeable!  " 

"  Dost  thou  never  feel  bored  or  afraid,  my  ])oor 
Lukerya?  " 

"  But  what  is  one  to  do?  I  will  not  lie — at  flrst 
I   found  it  very  tiresome;  but  afterward   I   got 
used  to  it,  I  grew^  patient, — 't  is  nothing,  some 
])eople  are  still  worse  off." 
How^  so: 

"  Why,  one  person  has  no  shelter!  Another  is 
blind  or  deaf!  But  1,  thank  (xod,  can  see  splen- 
didly, and  hear  everything,  everything.  If  a 
mole  is  burrowing  underground,  I  hear  it.  And 
I  can  detect  every  odour,  no  matter  how  faint  it 
is!  If  the  buckw^heat  in  the  fields  comes  into 
bloom,  or  the  linden  in  the  garden, — it  is  not 
necessary  to  tell  me  about  it :  I  am  the  first  of  all 
to  perceive  it,  if  only  the  breeze  blow  s  from  that 
quarter.  No,  why  anger  God? — many  people 
are  worse  ofl"  than  I.  Take  this,  for  example:  a 
healthy  man  can  very  easily  fall  into  sin;  l)iit 
from  me  sin  has  departed  of  itself.    A  while  ago, 

293 


MEMO  IKS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

Father  Alexyei  undertook  to  give  me  the  Sacra- 
ment, anil  lie  said :  '  There  's  no  use  in  confessing 
thee:  is  it  possible  for  thee  to  sin  in  thy  condition?' 
—  Hut  I  answered  him: — 'And  how  about  sin  of 
thought,  batiushka? '  ' — '  Well,'  says  he,  and  be- 
gins to  laugh,  '  that  's  no  great  sin.' 

"  And  it  must  be  that  I  am  not  very  guilty  of 
that  same, — that  mental  sin," — went  on  Lukerya> 
— -"  because  I  have  trained  myself  so;  not  to 
think,  and — most  of  all — not  to  remember.  The 
time  passes  more  quickly  so." 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  astonished. — "  Thou 
art  always  entirely  alone,  Lukeryai*  Then  how 
canst  thou  prevent  thoughts  from  coming  into 
thy  headi"   Or  dost  thou  sleep  all  the  time?  " 

'*  Oi,  no,  master!  I  am  not  always  able  to 
sleep.  Althougli  I  do  not  suffer  great  pain, — 
yet  there  is  a  gnawing  there  inside  me,  and  in  my 
bones  also;  it  will  not  let  me  sleep  as  I  should. 
No.  ...  I  just  lie  here  by  myself,  and  lie  and 
lie — and  don't  think;  I  am  conscious  that  I  am 
alive,  I  breathe — and  that  is  all.  I  see,  I  hear. 
The  bees  hum  and  drone  among  the  hives;  a 
pigeon  alights  on  the  roof  and  begins  to  coo;  a 
mother-hen  comes  along  with  her  chicks  and  be- 
gins to  peck  up  the  crumbs;  or  a  sparrow  or  a 
butterlly  flutters  in — ^which  pleases  me  very  much. 
The  year  before  last  the  swallows  built  themselves 


•"Dear  little  father,"  literally;  used  in  respect fully-aflFeetionate 
address  to  a  man  of  any  rank,  from  tiie  l-".ini)er()r  down,  hut  es- 
pecially the  prerogative  of  the  priesthood. — Tuansi-atok. 

294 


LIVINC;   llOLV   KKLICS 

a  nest  yonder  in  tlie  corner,  and  i-aised  their 
brood.  How  interesting  it  was!  One  would  lly 
to  the  nest,  alight  on  it,  and  feed  the  l)al)ies — and 
off  it  would  go  again.  And  lo,  the  other  one 
would  take  its  place.  Sometimes  tlie  bird  would 
not  fly  in,  but  merely  dash  across  the  open  door — 
but  the  nestlings  would  immediately  begin  to 
squeak,  and  ojjen  their  bills,  ...  I  watched  for 
them  the  next  year,  but  I  was  told  that  one  of  the 
sportsmen  in  the  neighbourhood  had  shot  them. 
And  why  did  he  covet  them?  For,  altogether,  a 
swallow  is  no  bigger  than  a  beetle.  .  .  .  How 
wicked  you  sportsmen  are!  " 

"  I  do  not  shoot  swallows," — I  hastened  to 
remark. 

"  And  then,  once,  what  a  good  laugh  I  had!  " 
- — began  Lukerya  again. — "  A  hare  ran  in, — it 
really  did !  The  dogs  were  chasing  it,  I  suppose, 
— ^only  it  seemed  just  to  roll  in  through  the  door! 
....  It  squatted  down  quite  close  to  me,  and 
sat  there  for  a  long  time,^ — and  kept  moving  its 
nose  and  twitching  its  moustache,  just  like  an 
officer!  And  it  stared  at  me.  It  understood, 
probably,  that  1  was  not  dangerous  to  it.  At  last 
it  got  up,  went  hop-hop  to  the  door,  glanced 
round  on  the  threshold — and  vanished  from 
sight!    It  w^as  so  funny!  " 

Lukerya  cast  a  glance  at  me  ....  as  much 
as  to  ask:  "Wasn't  it  funny?"  I  laughed  to 
please  her.    She  bit  her  withered  lips. 

"  Well,  and  in  wintei',  I  am  not  so  well  off,  of 

295 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTS^SIAN 

course:  because  it  is  dark;  one  hates  to  light  a 
caiulle.  and  wliat  's  the  use  of  it?  Although  I  can 
read  and  write,  and  was  always  fond  of  reading, 
\shat  is  tliere  for  nie  to  read?  There  are  no 
hooks  wliatever  here,  and  even  if  there  were  any, 
how  could  1  hold  a  book?  Father  Alexyei 
Ijiouffht  me  a  calendar  to  divert  me,  but  saw  that 
it  was  useless,  so  he  took  and  carried  it  away 
again.  But  although  it  is  dark,  there  is  always 
something  to  listen  to:  a  cricket  will  begin  to 
chirp  or  a  mouse  to  gnaw  somewhere. — And  un- 
der such  circumstances  it  is  a  good  thing  not  to 
think! 

"  And  then  I  recite  prayers," — continued  Lu- 
kerya,  after  resting  a  while. — "  Only  I  don't 
know  many  of  them, — of  those  same  prayers. 
^Vnd  why  sliould  I  worry  the  Lord  God?  What 
can  I  ask  of  Him?  He  knows  better  than  I  do 
\vhat  I  need.  He  has  sent  me  a  cross — which  sig- 
nifies that  He  loves  me.  We  are  commanded  to 
understand  it  so.  I  repeat  the  Our  Father,  the 
Hail  Mary,  the  acathistus  ^  to  the  Virgin  of  Sor- 
rows,— and  then  I  go  on  lying  here  without  any 
thought  at  all.    And  I  don't  mind  it!  " 

A  couple  of  minutes  passed.  I  did  not  break 
the  silence,  and  did  not  stir  on  the  narrow^  tub 
\\hich  served  me  as  a  seat.     The  stiff,  stony  im- 

'  A   service  of  liymns  and   prayers   to   the   Saviour,   tlie   Virgin 
Mother,  or  a  Saint.     The  congregation  stands  throughout. — Traxs- 

LATOU. 

296 


LIVING   HOLY  RELICS 

mobility  of  the  living,  iinliappy  being  who  lay 
there  before  me  had  communicated  itself  to  me; 
I  also  seemed  to  have  become  petrified. 

"  Hearken,  Lukerya,"  —  I  said  at  last.  — 
"  Hearken  to  the  proposition  which  I  am  about 
to  make  to  thee.  I  will  have  thee  taken  to  a  hos- 
pital, to  a  good  hospital  in  the  town:  wouldst  thou 
like  that?  Perhaps  they  can  cm-e  thee — who 
knows?    At  any  rate,  thou  wilt  not  be  alone.  .  .  ." 

Lukerya  contracted  her  brows  almost  imper- 
ceptibly.— "  Okh,  no,  master," — she  said,  in  an 
anxious  whisper, — "  don't  transfer  me  to  the 
hospital,  don't  touch  me.  I  shall  only  undergo 
more  tortures  there. — Cure  me  indeed!  Why,  a 
doctor  once  came  here,  and  wanted  to  examine 
me.  I  begged  him :  '  Do  not  disturb  me,  for 
Christ's  sake ! '  It  was  no  use !  He  began  to  turn 
me  about,  he  kneaded  and  bent  my  arms  and  legs, 
and  says  he:  'I  'm  doing  this  in  the  interests  of 
science ;  that 's  what  I  'm  a  learned  man  in  the  ser- 
vice for!  And  thou,'  says  he,  '  canst  not  oppose 
me,  because  I  have  been  given  an  Order  to  wear 
on  my  neck  for  my  laboiu-s,  and  I  exert  myself  for 
the  benefit  of  you  fools !  '  He  mauled  me,  and 
mauled  me,  and  told  me  the  name  of  my  ailment, 
— such  a  hard  name, — and  then  he  went  away. 
And  all  my  bones  ached  for  a  whole  week  after- 
ward. You  say  that  I  am  alone,  always  alone. 
No,  not  always.  People  come  to  me.  I  am  quiet, 
I  do  not  disturb  them.     The  young  peasant  girls 

297 


.AIKMOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

ilrop  in,  and  chatter;  a  pilgrim  strays  in,  and  be- 
gins to  tell  me  about  Jerusalem,  about  Kieff, 
al)out  the  holy  cities.  And  I  am  not  afraid  to  be 
alone.  I  even  like  it  better  so,  truly  I  do!  ...  . 
Don't  touch  me,  master,  don't  take  me  to  the  hos- 
pital  I    thank    you, — you    are    kind, — 

only  don't  touch  me,  my  dear  little  dove." 

"  Well,  as  thou  wilt,  as  thou  wilt,  Lukerya.  I 
meant  it  for  thy  good,  seest  thou.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  master,  that  it  was  for  my  good. 
But,  master  dear,  who  can  help  another?  Who 
can  enter  into  this  soul?  A  man  must  help  him- 
self!    Xow,  you  will  not  believe  it — but  I  some- 

times  lie  here  alone  like  this and  it  seems 

as  though  there  were  not  another  person  in  all  the 
world  except  myself.  I  alone  am  living!  And 
I  feel  as  though  something  were  blessing  me. 
.  .  .  Thoughts  come  to  me — even  wonderful 
thoughts." 

"  What  dost  thou  think  about  at  such  times, 
Lukerya?  " 

"  'T  is  utterly  impossible  to  tell  thee  that,  mas- 
ter: it  can't  be  explained.  And  one  forgets  it 
afterward,  too.  It  is  as  though  a  little  cloud  de- 
scended, and  spread  al)road,  and  everything  be- 
comes so  cool  and  pleasant, — but  what  has  hap- 
pened you  can't  understand.  Only,  I  think  to 
myself:  '  If  there  were  people  about  me,  nothing 
of  this  sort  wordd  take  place,  and  I  should  feel 
nothing,  except  my  own  misfortune.'  " 

298 


LIVING   IIOLV    HKLKS 

Lukerya  drew  brejith  with  difficulty.  Her 
lungs  did  not  obey  her,  any  more  than  the  rest  of 
her  members. 

"  When  I  look  at  you,  master," — she  began 
again, — "  I  feel  very  sorry  for  you.  l^nt  you 
must  not  pity  me  too  much,  really!  111  tell 
you  something,  for  example:  sometimes,  even 
now,  I  ....  Of  course,  you  remember  what  a 
merry  girl  I  was  in  my  day?  A  dashing  maid! 
.  .  .  So,  do  you  know  what?  I  sing  songs  even 
now." 

"Songs?  ....  Thou?" 

"  Yes,  songs,  ancient  ballads,  choral  songs, ^ 
Christmas  carols,  all  sorts  of  songs!  1  knew  a 
great  many,  you  see,  and  have  not  forgotten 
them.  Only  I  don't  sing  any  dance-songs.  It 
is  n't  fitting, — in  my  present  condition." 

"  But   how   dost   thou    sing   them to 

thyself?  " 

"  Both  to  myself  and  with  my  voice.  I  can't 
sing  loudly,  but  they  are  audible,  nevertheless. 
There  now,  I  have  told  you  that  a  little  maid 
comes  to  me.  She  's  a  (juick-witted  orphan,  you 
see.  So  I  have  taught  her;  she  has  already 
learned  four  songs  from  me.  Don't  you  believe 
it?    Wait, — in  a  minute  I  '11  .  .  .  ." 

Lukerya  mustered  her  forces.  .  .  .  The 
thought  that  this  half -dead  being  was  preparing 

'  The  choral  songs  whicli  accompany  the  games  of  the  jjeasant 
girls.  Many  of  these  games  consist  of  slow,  circling  movements. — 
Translator. 

299 


.MKMOlliS   OF  A   SrORTSMAX 

lo  shiy:  aroused  in  inc  involuntary  terror.  But 
before  I  could  utter  a  word,  a  prolonged,  barely 
audible,  but  pure  and  true  sound  tienibled  on  my 
ears  ....  followed  by  a  second,  a  tliird.  Lu- 
kerya  was  singing  "  In  tlie  Meadows."  Sbe  sang 
witiiout  altering  the  expression  of  her  petrified 
eountenance,  even  fixing  her  eyes  in  a  stare. 
But  so  touchingly  did  that  poor,  forced  little 
voice  ring  forth,  like  a  wreath  of  luidulating 
smoke,  so  greatly  did  her  soul  long  to  pour  itself 
out  ....  that  I  no  longer  felt  terror:  unutter- 
able pity  gripped  my  heart. 

"  Okh,    1   cannot!" — she   said   suddenly, — "I 

have  not  the  strength It  has  given  me 

great  pleasure  to  see  you." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

I  laid  my  hand  on  her  tiny,  cold  fingers.  .  .  . 
She  darted  a  glance  at  me — and  her  dark  eyelids, 
fringed  with  golden  lashes,  as  in  an  ancient  statue, 
closed  again.     A  moment  later,  they  began  to 

aleam   in   the   semi-darkness Thev   were 

wet  with  tears. 

As  before,  I  did  not  stir. 

"What  a  goose  I  am!" — said  Lukerya  sud- 
denly, with  unexpected  force,  and  opening  her 
eyes  wide,  she  tried  to  wink  the  tears  from  them. 
— "  Isn't  it  shameful^  What  ails  me?  'T  is  a 
long  time  since  anything  of  this  sort  happened 
with  me  ....  not  since  the  day  when  Vasily 
Polyakofi^'  came  to  me,  last  spring.    As  long  as  he 

300 


rjvrxc;  iioT.Y  kelics 

was  sitting  uiicl  talking  with  mc,  it  was  all  right; 
but  when  he  went  away,  I  iust  cried  all  bv  niv- 
self!  I  can't  tell  what  made  me  do  it!  ...  . 
Tears  come  easy  to  us  women,  you  know.  Mas- 
ter," — added  Lukerya, — "  you  haye  a  handker- 
chief,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  Don't  disdain  to  wipe  my 
eyes.  ..." 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  her  request — and 
left  her  the  handkei'chief.     At  first  she  tried  to 

refuse saying:  "  ^Vhy  should  you  make 

me  such  a  gift?  "  The  handkercliief  was  a  yery 
plain  one,  but  clean  and  white.  Then  she  seized 
it  in  her  feeble  fingers,  and  did  not  relax  them 
again.  Haying  become  accustomed  to  the  gloom 
in  which  we  both  were,  1  could  distinctly'  discern 
her  features,  could  eyen  detect  a  faint  flush  which 
flitted  across  the  bronze  of  her  face,  coidd  dis- 
coyer  in  that  face — at  least  so  it  seemed  to  me — 
traces  of  its  former  beauty. 

"  You  w^ere  asking  me,  master," — Lukerya 
again  began  to  speak, — "  whether  I  sleep?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  sleep  rarely;  but  when  I  do,  I 
haye  such  fine  dreams!  I  neyer  see  myself  as  ill: 
in  my  dreams  I  am  always  so  healthy  and  young. 
.  .  .  .  One  thing  is  unfortunate:  I  wake  up,  and 
want  to  stretch  myself  well,  and  lo!  1  am  as 
though  fettered  all  o\'er.  Once  I  had  a  wonder- 
ful dream!  I  '11  tell  you  about  it,  shall  I  ?— Well 
then,  listen. — I  seem  to  be  standing  in  a  field,  and 
all  around  is  rye,  so  tall  and  ripe  and  golden !  .  .  . 

301 


:mkmoirs  of  a  sportsman 

And  I  seem  to  have  with  me  a  small,  reddish  dog, 
a  \  c  TV,  very  vieious  beast — it  is  continually  trying 
to  bite  me.  xVnd  there  seems  to  be  a  reaping-hook 
in  niv  hands — not  an  oi-dinary  hook,  but  exactly 
like  the  moon  when  it  resembles  a  reaping-hook. 
And  with  that  moon  I  am  to  reap  the  rye  clean, 
l^it  I  am  greatly  fatigued  with  the  heat,  and  that 
moon  dazzles  me,  and  languor  comes  upon  me; 
and  all  around  corn-flowers  are  growing,  and  such 
big  ones !  And  they  have  turned  their  little  heads 
toward  me.  And  T  think  to  myself:  '  I  will  pluck 
those  corn-flowers;  Vasya  has  promised  to  come 
— so  I  Avill  first  weave  myself  a  wreath;  I  shall 
have  time  to  do  the  reaping.'  I  begin  to  pluck 
corn-flowers,  but  they  begin  to  melt  away, — melt 
away  between  my  Angers, — I  never  saw  anything 
like  it!  And  I  cannot  weave  myself  a  wreath. 
Ikit,  in  the  meantime,  I  hear  some  one  coming 
toward    me,    so    close,    and    calling :     '  Liisha ! 

Lusha!' '  Ai,'  thinks  I  to  mj'self,  'woe 

is  me,  I  have  n't  got  through  the  reaping!  Nev- 
ertheless, I  will  place  the  moon  on  my  head  in- 
stead of  the  corn-flowers.'  I  put  on  the  moon  ex- 
actly like  a  kokoshnik,'  and  immediately  I  myself 
began  to  beam  all  over,  and  lighted  up  the  whole 
fleld.  And  lo!  over  the  verj^  crests  of  the  vye- 
ears,  there  comes  swiftly  advancing  toward  me — 
not  Vasya,   but   Christ   Himself!     And  how   I 

*  The  c-oronet-shaped  head-dress  of  the  peasant 
maidens. — Tkansi.atoii. 

302 


LIVINC;    HOLY   RELICS 

knew  that  it  was  Christ,  I  cannot  tell. — He  is  not 
painted  in  that  way, — hnt  it  was  no  one  else  but 
He!  15eardless,  tall,  young,  clad  all  in  wliite, — 
only  His  girdle  was  of  gold, — and  He  stretches 
out  His  hand  to  me. — '  Fear  not, my  bride  adorned 
for  my  coming,' — He  says,  '  follow  me:  tliou 
shalt  lead  the  chorals  in  my  heavenly  kingdom, 
and  play  the  songs  of  paradise!' — And  how  I 
glue  ni}^  lips  to  His  hand! — JVIy  dog  instantly 
falls  at  my  feet  ....  but  tlieii  we  soared  up- 
ward! He  in  front  ....  His  wings  spread  out 
over  all  the  sky,  as  long  as  those  of  a  sea-gull, — 
and  I  after  Him.  And  the  little  dog  was  forced 
to  leave  me.  Only  then  did  I  understand  that 
that  dog  was  my  malady,  and  that  in  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  there  will  be  no  room  for  it." 

Lukerya  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  And  I  saw  something  else  in  a  dream," — she 
began  anew, — "  or  perhaps  it  was  a  vision — 
really,  I  do  not  know.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  am 
lying  in  this  same  wattled  shed,  and  my  dead  pa- 
rents come  to  me,^ — mv  father  and  mv  mother, — 
and  bow  low  before  me,  but  say  nothing.  And  I 
ask  them :  '  Whv  do  you  do  reverence  to  me,  dear 
father  and  mother? ' — '  Because,' — thev  sav  to 
me,  '  in  that  thou  sufFerest  great  torture  in  this 
world,  thou  hast  not  only  lightened  thine  own 
soul,  but  hast  removed  from  us  also  a  great  bur- 
den. And  things  have  become  much  more  pro- 
pitious for  us  in  the  other  world.     Thou  hast  al- 

303 


MKMOIirs   OF   A   SPORTSMAN 

rciulv  finisliecl  with  thine  own  sins;  now  thou  art 
con(iuering  our  sins.'  And  having  spoken  thus, 
my  paients  did  nic  reverence  again — and  became 
invisible;  t)iily  tlie  walls  were  visible.  I  was 
greatly  perplexed  al'terward  as  to  what  had  hap- 
pened to  me.  I  even  told  the  priest  about  it  in 
confession.  I5ut  he  thinks  that  it  was  not  a  vision, 
because  only  persons  of  the  ecclesiastical  profes- 
sion have  visions. 

"  And  then,  here  is  another  dream  I  had," — 
pursued  Lukerya. —  "  I  see  myself  sitting,  appar- 
entlv,  on  the  hi<'liwav,  under  a  willow-tree,  hold- 
ing  a  peeled  staff  in  my  hand,  with  a  wallet  on 
my  shoulders,  and  my  head  enveloped  in  a  ker- 
chief— a  regular  tramp!  And  I  have  to  go 
somewhere  very,  very  far  off,  on  a  pilgrimage. 
And  tramps  keep  passing  me;  they  are  walking 
softly,  as  though  unwillingly,  and  all  in  one  di- 
rection; all  their  faces  are  dejected,  and  they  all 
resemble  one  another  greatly.  And  I  see  that  a 
woman  is  winding  in  and  out,  darting  about 
among  them;  and  she  is  a  whole  head  taller  than 
all  the  rest,  ami  she  wears  a  peculiar  garb,  not 
like  ours,  not  Russian.  And  she  has  a  peculiar 
face,  too, — a  fasting,  stern  face.  And  all  the 
others  seem  to  draw  a^^'ay  from  her,  and,  all  of  a 
sudden,  she  wheels  round,  and  makes  straight 
toward  me.  She  comes  to  a  halt  and  gazes,  and 
her  eyes  are  like  those  of  a  falcon,  yellow,  large, 
and  bright,  very  bright.     And  I  ask  her:   'Who 

304 


LIVING  IIOT.Y  KEIJCS 

art  thou?' — And  she  says  to  me:  '1  am  thv 
death.'  I  suppose  I  ought  to  liave  felt  afraid ;  hut, 
on  the  contrary,  I  am  ghid,  so  very  glad,  and  I 
cross  myself!  And  the  woman  says  to  me:  '  I  am 
sorry  for  thee,  Lukerva,  hut  I  cannot  take  thee 
with  me. — Farewell!' — O  Lord!  how  sad  I  he- 
came  then !....'  Take  me,'  I  say,  '  dear  little 
mother,  my  dear  little  dove,  take  me ! ' — And  my 
death  turned  round  to  me,  and  hegan  to  repri- 
mand me I  understand  that  she  is  ap- 
pointing me  my  hour,  but  so  unintelligibly,  indis- 
tinctly. .  .  .  '  After  the  fast  of  St.  Peter,'  says 
she.  .  .  Thereupon  I  awoke.  ...  I  do  have  such 
wonderful  dreams !  " 

Lukerya  raised  her  eyes  upward  ....  he- 
came  pensive.  .  .  . 

''  Only,  this  is  my  misfortune:  it  sometimes 
happens  that  a  whole  week  ^^'ill  pass  without  my 
getting  to  sleep  a  single  time.  Last  year  a  lady 
passed  by,  and  saw  me,  and  gave  me  a  phial  with 
medicine  to  prevent  sleeplessness;  she  ordered  me 
to  take  ten  drops  at  a  time.  It  helped  me  a  great 
deal,  and  I  slept ;  only  the  phial  was  emptied  long 
ago.  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  what  medicine  it  was, 
and  how  I  could  get  some?  " 

The  passing  lady  had,  evidently,  given  Lu- 
kerya opium.  I  promised  to  procure  for  her  an- 
other such  phial,  and  again  could  not  help  ex- 
pressing aloud  my  amazement  at  her  patience. 

"  Ekh,    master!  "  —  she    returned.  —  "  What 

30.5 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SPORTSMAN 

makes  vou  sav  thatr  What  do  you  mean  by 
I)atience^  Tliere  was  Simeon  the  StyHte,  he  had 
•^rieat  patience:  he  stood  for  thirty  years  on  a  pil- 
hirl  And  another  saint  ordered  them  to  bury 
him  in  the  earth  up  to  his  very  chest,  and  the  ants 
devoured  his  face.  .  .  .  And  here  is  something 
whicli  a  well-read  person  once  told  me:  there  was 
a  certain  country,  and  Agarians  ^  conquered  that 
countrv,  and  thev  tortured  and  slew  all  the  inhabi- 
tants:  and  do  what  the  inhabitants  would,  they 
could  not  possibly  free  themselves.  And  then  a 
holy,  chaste  virgin  woman  made  her  appearance 
among  those  inhabitants;  she  took  a  great  sw^ord, 
put  on  armour  eighty  pounds  in  weight,  went 
against  the  Agarians,  and  drove  them  all  beyond 
the  sea.  Then,  after  she  had  driven  them  out,  she 
said  to  the  people:  '  Xo^y  do  you  burn  me,  for 
such  was  my  vow,  that  I  would  die  a  death  by  fire 
for  my  people.' — ^And  the  Agarians  took  her  and 
burned  her,  and  that  people  set  themselves  free, 
from  that  time  forth  forever!  That  was  a  feat! 
But  what  have  I  done!  " 

Thereupon,  I  marvelled  inwardly,  at  the  place 
and  the  form  ^^•hieh  the  legend  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 
had  attained,  and,  after  preserving  silence  for  a 
few  moments,  I  asked  Lukerya  how  old  she  was. 

"  Twenty-eight  ....  or  nine.  ...  I  am  not 
yet  thirty.     But  ^\•hat  is  the  use  of  reckoning 

*In   Russian,   EngVushmen   is   AnijUlchdne.     Lukerya  says 
A(/ary<in('.     'I'uansi.ator. 

306 


I.IVING  IIOLV  1{KLICS 

the  years!  Here's  sonietliiiig  else  1  must  tell 
you.  .  .  ." 

Siiddenly  Lukerya  gave  a  dull  cough,  and 
groaned.  .  .  . 

"  Thou  art  talking  a  great  deal," — I  remarked 
to- her, — "  it  may  injure  thee." 

"  That  is  true," — she  whispered  in  a  barely 
audible  tone, — "our  conversation  must  end;  but 
never  mind!  Now,  when  you  are  gone  I  can 
keep  silent  to  my  heart's  content.  At  all  events 
I  have  eased  my  soul.  .  .  ." 

I  began  to  take  leave  of  her,  repeated  my 
promise  to  send  her  the  medicine,  re(|uested  her  to 
think  it  over  once  more  thoroughly,  and  tell  me 
whether  she  did  not  want  something. 

"  1  want  nothing;  I  am  content  with  every- 
thing, thank  God !  " — she  articulated  with  a  tre- 
mendous eflPort,  but  with  emotion. — "  May  God 
grant  health  to  all  men!  And  see  here,  master, 
you  ought  to  persuade  your  mother  to  reduce  the 
quit-rent  of  the  peasants  here  a  little,  at  least — 
for  they  are  very  poor.     They  have  not  sufficient 

land,    they    have   no    pasture-land They 

M'ould  pray  to  God  for  you  if  you  did  it.  .  .  . 
But  I  need  nothing. — I  am  content  with  every- 
thing." 

I  gave  Lukerya  my  word  that  I  Mould  comply 
with  her  request,  and  was  alrc^idy  at  the  door — 
when  she  called  to  me  again. 

"  Do  you  remember,  master,"  she  said, — and 

307 


JMK.MOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

sonietliiiig  ^^•olulerfvll  flitted  through  her  eyes 
and  over  her  Hps, — "  what  magnificent  hair  I 
hacH  It  reached  my  very  knees, — you  remem- 
ber! For  a  long  time,  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  ...  .  Such  hair  as  it  was! — But  how  could 
I  comb  it?  In  my  condition ! — So  I  cut  it  off .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye,  master!  IMy  strength 
is  gone.  .  .  ." 

That  same  day,  before  I  set  out  on  my  hunt,  I 
had  a  conversation  about  Lukerya  with  the  assis- 
tant manager  of  the  farm.  From  him  I  learned 
that  she  was  called  in  the  village  "  The  Living 
Holy  Relics" ;  that  no  one  ever  beheld  her  uneasy: 
neither  murmuring  nor  complaint  was  to  be  heard 
from  her. — "  She  asks  for  nothing  herself,  but, 
on  the  contrarj^  she  is  thankful  for  everything; 
she  's  the  quietest  of  the  quiet,  I  must  say.  She 
has  been  smitten  by  God," — wound  up  the  assis- 
tant manager,- — "  for  her  sins,  it  must  be;  but  we 
don't  go  into  that.  And  as  for  condemning 
lier, — no,  we  do  not  condemn  her.  Leave  her  in 
peace !  " 

A  ¥BW  weeks  later,  I  heard  that  Lukerya  was 
dead.  Death  had  come  for  her,  after  all  ...  . 
and  "  after  St.  Peter's  Day."  The  people  nar- 
i-ated  how,  on  the  day  of  her  death,  she  had  heard 
uninterruptedly  the  chiming  of  bells,  although  it 
is  reckoned  more  than  five  versts  from  Alex- 

308 


LIVING  HOLY  RELICS 

veevka  to  the  church,  and  it  ^\'as  a  week-day. 
Moreover,  Lukerya  had  said  that  the  ringing  did 
not  proceed  from  the  church,  but  "  from  up 
above."  Probably  she  had  not  dared  to  say 
"  from  heaven." 


309 


XI 

THE    KATTIJNG 

"  I  MUST  tell  you  something," — said  Ermolai,  as 
he  entered  my  cottage:  I  had  just  eaten  my  din- 
ner, and  had  lain  down  on  the  camp-bed,  with  a 
view  to  resting  a  little  after  a  fairly  successful, 
])ut  fatiguing  hunt  for  woodcock — it  was  about 
the  tentli  of  July,  and  the  heat  was  frightful.  .  .  . 
"  I  must  tell  you  sometliing:  we  are  completely 
out  of  bird-sliot." 

I  sprang  from  the  bed. 

"  Out  of  bird-shot?  How  is  that?  Why,  we 
took  about  tliirty  pounds  with  us  when  we  started 
from  the  village — a  whole  sackful !  " 

"  That 's  so;  and  it  was  a  big  sack:  it  ought  to 
have  been  enough  for  a  fortnight.  Hut  who 
knows!  There  may  have  been  a  hole  in  it;  .  . 
anyhow,  there  is  n't  any  ....  there  's  enough 
left  for  about  ten  sliots." 

"  Wliat  are  we  to  do  now?  The  very  best 
places  are  ahead  of  us — we  were  promised  six 
coveys  for  to-morro\\'.  .  .  ." 

"Send  me  to  Tula. — It  isn't  far  off:  forty- 
five  versts  in  all.  I  '11  tly  like  the  wind  and  bring 
a  wliole  [)U(1  '  of  bird-shot  if  you  command  me." 

'  Aliout  tliirty-six  ])()uii(ls. — 'ru ansi  atoii. 

310 


THE   RATTLING 

"  But  when  wilt  thuu  go?  " 

"  Why,  this  very  instant,  if  you  hkc.  What 's 
the  use  of  putting  it  oif  ?  Only,  here  's  one  thing : 
I  must  hire  horses/' 

"  What  (lost  thou  mean  by  liiring  horses? — 
And  what  are  our  own  for?  " 

"  Our  own  can't  he  used. — The  shaft-horse  has 
gone  lame  ....  awfully!" 

"When  did  that  hai)pen? '' 

"  Why,  a  little  while  ago, — the  coachman  took 
him  to  be  shod.  Well,  and  they  shod  him.  He 
must  have  hit  on  a  bad  blacksmith. — Now  the 
horse  can't  even  step  on  that  foot — his  fore  foot. 
So  he  carries  it  ...  .  like  a  dog." 

"What  then?  Haven't  they  removed  the 
shoe,  at  least?  " 

"  No,  they  haven't;  but  he  certainly  ought  to 
have  the  shoe  taken  off.  .  .  I  think  the  nail  must 
have  been  driven  into  the  very  flesh." 

I  ordered  the  coachman  to  be  summoned.  It 
turned  out  that  Ermolai  had  told  the  truth:  the 
shaft-horse  reallv  could  not  stand  on  his  foot. — I 
immediately  took  measures  for  having  the  shoe 
removed  and  the  horse  placed  on  damp  clay. 

"  Well?  Do  vou  order  me  to  hire  horses  for 
Tula?  " — Ermolai  pressed  me  for  an  answer. 

"  Why,  is  it  possible  to  find  any  horses  in  this 
remote  wilderness?" — I  exclaimed  with  involun- 
tary irritation.   .   .   . 

The  village  in  which  we  found  ourselves  was 

311 


MK>r()IHS   OF   A    SPORTSMAN 

(Jilt  of  the  way,  in  the  wilds;  all  its  inhabitants  ap- 
peared to  be  poverty-stricken;  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  we  had  hunted  up  one  cottage  which,  if 
not  clean,  w  as  at  least  tolerably  spacious. 

"  It  is,  '  re])lie(l  Ennoliii  with  his  customary 
ini})erturl)ability.  —  ''  You  have  spoken  truly 
al)out  this  vi]la<>e;  only,  in  this  same  place  there 
used  to  li\e  one  peasant. — Such  a  clever  fellow! 
So  rich!  He  Iiad  nine  horses.  He  is  dead,  and 
his  eldest  son  now  administers  everything.  He  's 
a  man — the  stupidest  of  the  stu])id.  Imt  he  has  n't 
yet  managed  to  get  rid  of  all  the  paternal  goods. 
— ^Ve  '11  get  some  horses  from  him. — If  you  com- 
mand, I  will  bring  him  here. — His  brothers  are 
lively  lads,  I  'm  told  ....  nevertheless,  he  is 
their  head." 

"Why  is  that?" 

"  Because  he  's  the  eldest ! — That  means, — 
Younger  lads,  obey!" — At  this  point,  Ermolai 
expressed  himself  in  strong  and  unprintable  lan- 
guage about  younger  brothers  in  general. — "  I  '11 
bring  him.  He  's  simple-minded.  —  You  can 
make  your  own  terms  with  him." 

While  Krmolai  went  in  search  of  his  "  simple- 
minded  "  man,  the  idea  occurred  to  me:  "  Would 
it  not  be  better  for  me  to  go  to  Tiila  myself  ?  "  In 
the  first  place,  taught  by  experience,  I  had  not 
much  confidence  in  Ermolai;  I  had  once  sent  him 
to  town  to  make  some  ])urchases,  he  had  promised 
to  execute  my  commissions  in  the  space  of  one  day 

312 


TTTE  K ATI  1. IXC 


— tiiid  had  disappeared  for  a  whole  week,  liad 
drunk  up  all  the  money,  and  had  returned  on  foot, 
although  he  had  set  out  in  a  racing-drozhky.  In 
the  second  place,  I  was  acquainted  with  a  horse- 
dealer  in  Tula;  I  might  buy  from  him  a  horse 
to  take  the  place  of  the  lame  shaft-horse. 

"  That  settles  it!  "—I  thought.—"  I  '11  go  my- 
self; and  I  can  sleep  on  tlie  road — luckily,  the 
tarantas  is  comfortable." 

"I've  brought  him!" — exclaimed  Ermolai,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  later,  tumbling  into  the  cot- 
tage.— In  his  wake  there  entered  a  tall  peasant, 
in  a  white  shirt,  blue  trousers,  and  plaited  linden- 
bark  slippers, — a  man  with  white  eyelashes,  blear- 
eyed,  with  a  small,  red,  wedge-shaped  beard,  a 
long,  thick  nose,  and  a  gaping  mouth.  He  really 
did  look  like  a  "  weak-minded  "  person. 

"  Here,  if  you  please," — said  Ermolai, — "  he 
has  horses,  and  he  consents." 

"  This  you  see, — I  .  .  .  ."  the  peasant  began 
in  a  husky  voice  and  with  a  stutter,  tossing  back 
his  thin  hair,  and  fingering  the  rim  of  his  caj), 
which  he  held  in  his  hands. — "  I,  you  see " 

"  What  is  thy  name?  " — I  inquired. 

The  peasant  dropped  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  be 
meditating. — "  What  is  my  name,  did  you  say?  " 

"Yes;  what  is  thy  name?" 

"  Why,  my  name  will  be  Filofei." 

"  Well,  see  here  now,  my  good  Filofei ;  1  hear 

31.3 


MKMOIUS  OF  A  SrORTSMAN 

tliat  thou  liast  horses.— Bring  hither  a  troika- 
\ve  will  hitch  them  to  my  tarantas, — it  is  a  light 
Qi^e, — aiul  do  thou  drive  me  to  Tula.     It  is  a 
moonlight  night,  the  trip  will  be  light  and  cool. 
What  sort  of  a  road  have  you  thither?" 

"Koad^  The  road's  all  right. — It's  twenty 
versts,   all   told,   to  the  highway.      Tliere  's   one 

small   stretch wliich   is   bad;   otherw^ise, 

it  's  all  right." 

'*  What  is  that  bad  stretch?" 

"  \Miy.  the  river  must  be  forded." 

"  15ut  are  you  going  to  Tiila  yourself?" — in- 
(juired  Ermolai. 
1  es,  I  am. 

"  Weill  " — said  my  faithful  servitor,  and  shook 
his  head, — "  We-e-ell!" — he  repeated,  spat,  and 
left  the  room. 

The  trip  to  Tula,  evidently,  no  longer  had  any 
attractions;  it  had  become  for  him  an  empty  and 
uninteresting  matter. 

"  Dost  thou  know  the  road  well?  " — I  said,  ad- 
dressing Filofei, 

"Why  shouldn't  w^e  know  the  road! — Only, 
you  see,  1  can't  go  anyhow  ....  it 's  so  sud- 
den  " 

It  turned  out  that  Ermolai,  in  hiring  Filofei, 
had  announced  to  him  that  he  had  no  doubt  that 
he,  the  fool,  would  be  ])ai(l and  nothing- 
more !  Filofei,  although  he  was  a  fool,  accord- 
ing  to   Krmolai's   statement,    was   not    satisfied 

314 


THE  RAT TTJXG 

with  that  annouiiccnieiit  alone.  He  deniaiuled 
from  me  fifty  rubles, —  a  huge  sum;  1  offered  him 
ten  rubles, — a  low  price. — We  began  to  haggle; 
at  first,  Filofei  was  obdurate — then  he  began  to 
yield,  but  slowly.  I]irmolai,  who  came  in  for  a 
minute,  began  to  assure  me  that  "  this  fool  " — 
("  Evidently,  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  the  word!  " 
— commented  Filofei  in  an  undertone) — "this 
fool  does  n't  know  the  value  of  money  " — and, 
incidentally,  reminded  me  how,  twenty  years  pre- 
viously, the  posting-station  erected  by  my  mother 
on  a  fine  site,  at  the  intersection  of  two  highways, 
had  sunk  into  utter  decay,  owing  to  the  fact  that 
the  old  house-serf,  who  had  been  placed  there  to 
manage  the  establishment,  reallj'^  did  not  know 
how  to  reckon  money,  and  judged  of  it  accord- 
ing to  its  quantity,^ — that  is,  he  would  give, 
for  instance,  a  silver  quarter-ruble  for  six 
copper  five-kopek  pieces,  swearing  roundly  the 
while. 

"  Ekh,  thou,  Filofei,  art  a  regular  Filofei !  " — 
ejaculated  Ermolai  at  last, — and  quitting  the 
room  in  a  rage,  he  banged  the  door  behind  him. 

Filofei  made  him  no  reply,  as  tliough  conscious 
of  the  fact  that  to  be  named  Filofei  was,  in  re- 
ality, not  (|uite  expedient,  and  that  a  man  may  be 
upbraided  for  it,  although,  pro])erly  speaking, 
the  person  to  blame  in  the  matter  is  the  ])riest, 
who  has  not  been  as  benignant  to  him  as  he  should 
have  been. 

315 


M  KM  OIKS   OF   A    SrOKTSMAX 

But,  ;it  hist,  we  agreed  upon  twenty  rubles.— ^^ 
He  went  oti'  to  get  the  horses,  and  an  liour  hiter 
led  up  five  from  wliieh  I  was  to  make  my  ehoice. 
The  horses  seemed  to  l)e  pretty  good,  although 
theii-  manes  and  tails  were  tangled,  and  their  bel- 
lies were  bii>-  and  taut  as  a  drum. — With  Filof  ei 
eame  two  of  his  brothers,  who  bore  not  the  slight- 
est resemblanee  to  liim.  Small,  black-eyed,  sharp- 
nosed,  they  really  did  produce  the  impression  of 
heinii'  "  lively  lads  ";  thev  talked  much  and  fast, 
— "  cackled,"  as  Ermolai  expressed  it,— but  ren- 
dered obedience  to  their  elder  brother. 

They  rolled  the  tarantas  from  beneath  the  shed, 
and  worked  over  it  and  tlie  horses  for  an  hour  and 
a  half;  now  they  loosened  the  rope  traces,  again 
they  hitched  them  up  very  tight!.  Both  brothers 
insisted  upon  harnessing  the  "  roan "  in  the 
shafts,  because  "  you  kin  let  that  critter  fidl-tilt 
down  hill";  ' — but  Filof  ei  decided  in  favour  of 
a  very  shaggy  horse. — So  the  shaggy  horse  was 
put  in  the  shafts. 

They  stuffed  the  tarantas  full  of  hay,  and 
thrust  under  the  seat  the  lame  horse's  collar — in 
case  it  should  prove  necessary  to  fit  it  to  the 
newly-purchased  horse  in  Tula.  .  .  .  Filofei. 
who  liad  contrived  to  run  home  and  return  thence 
in  a  long,  white  peasant-coat  which  had  belonged 
to  his  father,  a  tall  conical  cap,  and  oiled  boots, 
clambered  solemnly  to  the  driver's  box. — I  took 

'  Russians  drive  at  full  speed  down  and  up  liiils. — Translator. 

316 


TIIK   UATTLIXC; 

my  seat,  and  looked  at  my  watcli:  it  was  a  quai- 
ter  past  ten. — Ermolai  did  not  e\'en  take  leave  of 
me,  having  set  about  thrashing  his  Valetka; 
Filofei  jerked  the  reins,  shouted  in  an  extremely 
shrill  little  voice:  "  Kkh,  you  tiny  beasts!" — his 
brothers  sprang  up  on  each  side,  lashed  the  trace- 
horses  under  the  belly,  and  the  tarantas  rolled  off, 
and  turned  through  the  gate  into  the  street.  The 
shaggy  horse  made  an  attempt  to  dash  to  his  place 
in  the  yard, — but  Filofei  brought  him  to  his  senses 
by  a  few  blows  of  his  whip, — and  we  had  soon  left 
the  village  behind  and  were  bowling  along  a  tol- 
erably level  road,  between  dense  thickets  of  nut- 
bushes. 

The  night  was  calm  and  magnificent,  the  most 
convenient  sort  for  driving. 

At  times,  the  breeze  would  rustle  among  the 
bushes,  rocking  the  branches;  at  times  it  would  die 
away  completely:  but  here  and  there  in  the  sky 
motionless  silvery  clouds  were  visible;  the  moon 
rode  hif^h,  brilliantly  illuminating  the  country- 
side. — I  stretched  myself  out  on  the  hay,  and  was 

already  beginning  to  fall    into   a   doze 

when  the  "  bad  stretch  "  suddenly  recurred  to  my 
memory,  and  I  started  up. 

"  How  now,  Filofei  ?    Is  it  far  to  the  ford  ?  " 

"  To  the  ford,  you  say?    It  will  be  about  eight 

versts." 

"  '  Eight  versts,'  "—I  thought  to  myself.— 
*'  We  shall  not  get  there  under  an  hour. — I  can 

;)17 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SrOUTSMAN 

take  a  nap." — "  Dost  thou  know  the  road  well, 
Filofeif  " — 1  Lisktd  another  (juestion. 

"  \Vhy,  how  could  1  help  it,  knowing  the 
roadf     T  is  n't  tlie  first  time  I  've  been  over  it." 

He  added  something  more,  hut  I  was  no  longer 
listening-  to  liini.   ...  I  was  asleep. 

\y  1 1  AT  aroused  me  was  not  my  intention  to  awake 
l)recisel\'  an  liour  later,  as  is  often  the  case, — but 
a  strange,  though  faint  dragging  through  mud 
and  gurgling  directly  under  my  ear. — I  raised  my 
head.  .  .  . 

What  marvel  Avas  this  ? — I  was  lying,  as  before, 
in  tlie  tarantas;  but  around  the  tarantas, — and 
about  fourteen  inches — not  more — from  its  rim, 
a  \\  atei-y  expanse,  lighted  up  by  tlie  moon,  was 
dimpling  and  undulating  in  small,  distinct  rip- 
ples. I  cast  a  glance  ahead:  on  the  box,  with 
drooping  head  and  bowed  back,  sat  Filofei,  like 
a  statue, — and  further  away  still,  over  the  purl- 
ing water, — the  curving  line  of  the  shaft-arch 
and  the  heads  and  backs  of  the  horses  were  visible. 
— And  everything  was  so  motionless,  so  noiseless, 
— exactly  as  in  the  realm  of  encliantment:  in  a 
dream,  a  fantastic  dream.  .  .  .  AVhat  did  it 
mean? — I  darted  a  glance  backward  from  be- 
neath  the  liood  of  the  tarantas.  .  .  .  Why,  we 
were  in  the  very  middle  of  the  river  ....  the 
sliores  were  more  than  thirty  paces  distant  from 


us! 


318 


THE  RATTLING 

"Filolei!"— 1  shouted. 

"  What  r'— he  replied. 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  by  '  wliat '?  Good  gra- 
cious!    Where  are  we?" 

"  In  the  river." 

"  I  see  tliat  we  are  in  the  river. — But  if  we  go 
on  like  this,  we  shall  drown. — Dost  mean  to  say 
that  thou  art  traversing  the  ford  in  this  manner? 
Hey? — Why,  thou  art  fast  asleep,  Filofei! 
Come,  answer  me!  " 

"  I  've  got  a  trifle  astray," — said  my  driver: — 
"  I  've  gone  to  one  side,  you  know,  more  's  the 
pity ;  but  now  we  must  wait." 

"What  dost  thou  mean  by  'must  wait'? — 
What  are  we  to  wait  for?  " 

"  Why,  here,  let  the  shaggy  horse  look  about 
him:  wherever  he  turns,  there  the  ford  will 
be,  you  see,  and  we  must  drive  in  that  direc- 
tion." 

I  half  sat  up  on  the  straw. — The  head  of  the 
shaggy  horse  hung  motionless  over  the  water. — 
The  only  thing  that  could  be  seen  by  the  clear 
light  of  the  moon  was,  that  one  of  its  ears  was 
moving  backward  and  forward  almost  impercep- 
tibly. 

"  Why,  he 's  fast  asleep  also,  thy  shaggy 
horse! " 

"No," — replied  Filofei: — "he's  sniffing  the 
water  now." 

Again  everything  relapsed  into  silence,  and,  as 

319 


MKMOlirS   OF  A   SPOHTSMzVX 

IkIoic,  tlierc  uas  no  sound  save  the  purling 
of  the  water. — I  also  grew  benumbed. 

Tlie  Miooiilight,  and  the  night,  and  the  river, 
and  wc  in  it    ...    . 

■  What  's  that  making  such  a  hoarse  sound?" 
— 1  asked  Filoiei. 

"That^ — Dneklings  in  the  reeds  ....  or 
snakes." 

All  at  once  the  head  of  the  shaft-horse  began 
to  shake,  he  pricked  up  his  ears,  he  began  to  snort, 
and  turned  round.  —  "  Xo-no-no-noo!  "  Filofei 
suddenly  roai-ed  at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  and,  half- 
rising,  he  brandished  his  whip.  The  tarantas  im- 
mediately moved  from  its  stand,  dashing  forward 
at  an  angle  across  the  current  of  the  river — and 
advanced,  quivering  and  swaying.  ...  At  first 
it  seemed  to  me  that  we  w^ere  sinking,  plunging 
into  the  depths;  but  after  two  or  three  jolts  and 
dives,  the  watery  expanse  seemed  suddenly  to 
grow  shallower.  ...  It  kept  sinking  lower  and 
lower,  the  tarantas  kept  rising  higher  and  higher 
out  of  it, — lo!  the  wheels  and  the  horses'  tails  had 
already  made  their  a])pearance, — and  now%  with 
mighty  and  violent  splashings,  raising  sheaves  of 
diamonds, — no,  not  of  diamonds,  but  of  sap- 
I)hires,  which  dispersed  in  the  full  gleam  of  the 
moon, — the  horses  dragged  us  cheerily  and  w  ith  a 
final  effort  on  to  the  sandy  shore,  and  proceeded 
along  the  road,  up-hill,  vying  with  each  other  in 
trotting  along  with  their  shining,  wet  hoofs. 


THE  KATTTJXG 

"What  will  Filolci  say  now  r'— flushed 
through  my  mind:  "  '  Vou  see  I  was  right! ' — or 
something  of  that  sort  t  "  Hut  he  said  nothing  at 
all.  Consequently,  I  did  not  consider  it  necessary 
to  upbraid  him  for  his  lack  of  caution,  and 
stretching  myself  out  again  upon  the  hay,  I  tried 
to  get  to  sleep. 

But  I  could  not  get  to  sleep,  not  because  I  was 
fatigued  with  hunting,  and  not  because  the  trepi- 
dation I  had  undergone  had  driven  slumber  from 
me, — but  probably  because  we  were  obliged  to 
pass  through  very  beautiful  places.  Now  there 
WTre  spacious,  luxiu'iant,  grassy  water-meadows, 
with  a  multitude  of  small  pools,  lakes,  brooks, 
creeks  overgrown  at  their  extremities  with  wil- 
lows and  vines,  genuine  Russian  spots,  beloved  of 
the  Russian  folk,  similar  to  those  whither  the 
heroes  of  our  ancient  epic  songs  ^  were  wont  to 
go  to  shoot  white  swans  and  grey  ducks.  The 
well-beaten  road  wovmd  in  a  yellowish  ribbon,  the 
horses  ran  lightly — and  I  could  not  close  an  eye, 
— to  such  a  degree  was  I  admiring  things!  And 
all  this  glided  past  me  so  softly  and  sedately,  be- 
neath the  friendly  moon. — Even  Filofei  was  af- 
fected. 

"  Those  are  what  are  called  among  us  the 
Saint-George  meadows," — he  said,  turning  to 
me; — "and   next  come  the  Grand-Prince   mea- 

*See  "The  Epic  Songs  of  Russia,"  l)y  Isabel  F.   Hapgood. 
Charles  Seribner's  Sons. 

321 


MEMOIRS  OF  A   srORTSMAN 

(lows;  tlRTc  are  no  otlier  meadows  like  them  in  all 

Russia They  are  very  heautiful!" — The 

sliat't-horse    snorted    and    shook    himself.    .    .    . 

•  Lord  hless  thee!  " said  Filofei,  staidly 

and  in  an  undertone. — ''  Aren't  they  beautiful!  " 
he  repeated,  u  itli  a  sigh,  and  then  indidged  in  a 
prolonged  groan.  "  The  mowing-lands  begin 
pretty  soon,  now,  and  what  a  lot  of  hay  they  get 
from  them — an  awful  lot! — And  there  are  quan- 
tities of  fish  in  the  ereeks,  too. — Such  bream!  " — 
he  added  in  a  (lra\\l.  "  In  a  word :  there  is  no  need 
of  dying  from  hunger!  " 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  hand. 

"Ehva! — just  look  yonder!  over  yonder  lake 

....   is  n't  it  a  heron  standing  there?  can  it  be 

possil)le  that  it  is  catcliing  fish  by  night?  Ekh-ma! 

t  is  a  stump,  not  a  heron.    I  was  fooled  that  time! 

but  the  moon  always  deceives." 

Thus  did  we  drive  on  and  on.  .  .  .  But  now 
the  meadows  came  to  an  end,  small  tracts  of  for- 
est made  their  appearance,  and  tilled  fields;  a 
handet  on  one  side  twinkled  with  two  or  three 
lights, — not  more  than  five  versts  remained  to  the 
highway. — I  fell  asleep. 

Again  I  did  not  wake  of  my  own  accord.  This 
time  Filofei's  voice  aroused  me. 

"Master  ....  hey,  master!" 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow. — The  tarantas 
was  standing  still  on  a  level  spot,  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  ihe  highway;  turned  round  toward  me  on 

322 


THE  RATTLING 

the  box,  full  face,  with  his  eyes  widely  opened 
(1  was  even  astonished,  not  having-  supj)()se(l  that 
he  had  such  large  eyes),  Filofei  whispered  sig- 
nificantly and  mysteriously: 

"There's  a  rattling!  ....  There's  a  rat- 
tling!" 

"  What 's  that  thou  'rt  saying?  " 

"  I  say  there  's  a  rattling! — Just  bend  down 
and  listen.     Do  you  hear?  " 

I  thrust  my  head  out  of  the  tarantas,  and 
held  my  breath: — and,  in  fact,  I  did  hear  some- 
where in  the  distance,  far  away  from  us,  a  faint, 
spasmodic  rattling,  as  though  of  rumbling 
wheels. 

"  Do  you  hear?  " — repeated  Filofei. 

"  Well,  yes," — I  replied.  "  Some  equipage  is 
driving  on  the  road." 

"But  you  don't  hear  it hist!     There 

it  is  ...  ,  harness-bells and  a  whistle 

too Do  you  hear?     Come,  take  off  5^our 

cap you  will  hear  more  distinctly." 

I  did  not  take  off  my  cap,  but  lent  an  ear. — 

"  Well,  yes perhaps   I   do. — But   what 

of  that?" 

Filofei  turned  his  face  toward  his  horses. 

"  A    peasant-cart    is    rolling    swiftly 

unladen,  tlie  wheels  have  tires,"  he  said,  as  he 
gathered  up  his  reins. ^—"  It  means,  master,  that 
evil  peo[)le  are  driving  yonder;  for  here,  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  Tula,  there  's  a  lot  of frolicking." 

323 


MKMOIHS   OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

•  What  nonsense!  Why  dost  thou  assume  that 
tliey  must,  iiif'allihly,  he  wieked  people?" 

•■  I    111    ulhno    you    truly. — Witli    hells  .   .   .   . 
and  in  an  unladen  eart.   .   .   .   Who  can  it  he?  " 
•   \\\11.  and  is  it  very  far  to  Tula  still  T' 

•  It  must  l)e  a  good  fifteen  versts,  and  there  's 
noi  a  sign  of  a  dwelhng/' 

••  Well,  tluii,  drive  on  as  rapidly  as  possihle;  we 
must  make  no  delay." 

Filofei  flourished  his  whip,  and  again  the  ta- 
rantas  rolled  on. 

Although  I  did  not  helieve  Filofei,  still  I  coidd 
no  longer  sleep.— And  what  if,  in  reality  .  .  .  .  ? 
An  unpleasant  sensation  hegan  to  stir  within  me. 
— 1  sat  up  in  the  tarantas — up  to  that  time  I  had 
been  lying  down — and  began  to  gaze  on  all  sides. 
While  I  had  been  asleep,  a  thin  mist  had  gathered 
— not  over  the  earth,  but  over  the  sky;  it  lay 
liigh  up, — the  moon  hung  in  it  like  a  whitish  s])ot, 
as  tliough  veiled  in  crape.  Everytliing  had 
grown  dull  and  confused,  although  below  things 
were  more  visible. — All  around  lay  flat,  melan- 
choly places;  fields,  and  more  fields,  here  and 
tliere  a  few  bushes,  ravines — and  then  more  fields, 
and  chiefly  fallow  land,  w  itli  sparse,  weedy  grass. 
Empty  ....  dead!  Not  even  a  quail  was  call- 
ing. 

We  drove  on  for  half  an  hour. — Filofei  was 
contiriually    cracking    his    whip    and    chirru]iing 

324 


TTTK  T^ATTTJXC; 

with  liis  lips,  but  ucitlRi-  lie  iioi-  i  iitleivd  a  word. 

Now    we    ascended    a    hillock r'iloiei 

stopped  the  troika,  and  ininiediately  said: 

"  There  's  a  rattlin<4- a  raltlin<>\  mas- 
ter!'' 

Again  1  hung  out  of  the  tarantas;  I)ut  1  niight 
as  well  have  remained  under  the  hood,  so  clearly, 
though  distinctly,  was  there  now  borne  to  my  ears 
the  sound  of  cart-^^•heels,  men  whistling,  the  jing- 
ling of  the  harness-hells,  and  the  trampling  of 
horses'  hoofs;  1  even  fancied  I  heard  singing  and 
laughter.  The  breeze,  it  is  true,  was  blowing 
from  that  qnarter,  but  there  was  no  doubt  of  the 
fact  that  the  unknown  travellers  had  drawn 
nearer  to  us  l)y  a  whole  verst — possibly,  even,  by 
two  versts. 

Filofei  and  I  exchanged  glances, — he  merely 
moved  his  cap  from  the  back  of  his  head  over  his 
brow,  and  immediately,  bending  over  the  reins, 
began  to  lash  the  horses.  They  set  out  at  a  gal- 
lop, but  could  not  keep  up  the  pace  long,  and 
again  dropped  into  a  trot. — Filofei  continued  to 
belabour  them.    We  must  make  our  escape! 

T  could  not  account  to  myself  for  the  fact  that 
this  time  I,  who  had  not  at  first  shared  Filofei's 
sus])icions,  had  suddenly  acquired  the  conviction 
that  it  was  really  evil-doers  who  were  driving  in 
pursuit  of  us.  ...  I  had  heard  nothing  new: 
there  Avere  the  same  bells,  there  was  the  same 
rattlino-  sound  of  an  unloaded  cart,  the  same  whis- 


MEMOIRS   OF  A   SP01iTSMA^ 

tling,  the  same  confused  uproar.  .  .  .  But  I  now 
no  longer  cherished  any  doubt.  .  Filofei  could 
not  he  mistaken! 

And  thus  twenty  more  minutes  passed.  .  .  . 
In  the  course  of  these  last  twenty  minutes, 
athwait  the  rattling  and  rumbling  of  our  own 
equipage,  we  could  hear  another  rattling,  another 
rumbling.   .   .   . 

■  Hall,  Filofei!  " — I  said:  "  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence— there  can  be  but  one  end  to  this:'  " 

Filofei  uttered  a  faint-hearted  "  Whoa!  "  The 
horses  stopped  instantly,  as  though  delighted  at 
the  possibility  of  taking  a  rest! 

Good  heavens!  the  bells  were  simply  roaring 
behind  our  backs,  the  cart  was  thundering  on 
with  a  rattle,  men  were  whistling,  shouting,  and 
singing,  the  horses  were  neighing  and  pounding 
the  earth  M'ith  their  hoofs.  .  .  . 

They  had  overtaken  us ! 

"  Ca-la-mee-ty!  " — said  Filofei  brokenly,  in  an 
undertone — and,  with  an  irresolute  chirrup,  he 
began  to  urge  on  his  horses.  But  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, something  seemed  suddenly  to  give  way 
with  a  crash  and  a  roar  and  a  groan, — and  a  very 
large,  broad  peasant-cart,  drawn  by  three  ema- 
ciated horses,  overtook  us  abruptly,  like  a  whirl- 
wind, dashed  past  us,  and  immediately  slowed 
down  to  a  walk,  blocking  the  road. 

"A  regular  brigand  trick!" — whispered 
Filofei. 

326 


/ 


TIIK  RATTLING 

1  must  admit  tluit  my  heart  began  to  l)cat 
wildly.  ...  I  began  to  stare  intently  into  the 
semi-gloom  of  the  moonlight  veiled  in  va])onrs. 
In  the  cart,  in  front  of  us,  half-sitting,  half-lying, 
were  six  men  in  shirts,  with  their  peasant-coats 
wide  open  on  the  breast ;  two  of  them  were  bare- 
headed ;  huge  feet  in  boots  dangled,  jolting,  over 

the  rail;  hands  rose  and  fell  at  random 

bodies  heaved  to  and  fro It   was   plain 

that  the  whole  gang  was  drunk.  Some  were  yell- 
ing hoarsely  w'hatever  happened  to  come  into 
their  heads;  one  w^as  w'histling  in  a  very  clear 
and  piercing  manner,  another  was  swearing; 
on  the  driver's  seat  sat  a  sort  of  giant  in  a 
short,  sheepskin  coat,  driving.  They  drove  on 
at  a  foot-pace,  as  though  paying  no  attention 
to  us. 

What  was  to  be  done?  We  drove  after  them, 
also  at  a  foot-pace. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  verst  we  proceeded  in  this 

manner. — Anticipation    was    torturing 

What  chance  was  there  of  saving  ourselves,  de- 
fending ourselves!  There  were  six  of  them:  and 
I  had  not  even  a  stick  with  me!  Should  we  turn 
back  on  our  course? — but  they  would  immediately 
overtake  us.  I  recalled  a  verse  of  Zhukovsky 
(where  he  is  speaking  of  the  murder  of  Field- 
Marshal  Kamensky)  : 


<( 


The  despised  axe  of  the  brigand   . 
327 


»> 


MKMOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAX 

If  not  that,  tluy  would  strangle  us  with  a 
filtliy  rope  ....  and  fling  us  into  the  ditch 
.  .  .  .  .  and  tliere  we  might  rattle  in  the  throat 
and  struggle  like  a  hare  in  a  snare 

Kkh.  we  were  in  a  had  plight! 

IJut  tliev  continued  to  drive  at  a  walk,  as  be- 
fore, and  pay  no  attention  to  us. 

"  Filofei!  "—1  whispered, — "  pray  try  to  turn 
more  to  the  right.    Endeavour  to  pass  them." 

Filofei  made  the  attempt, — and  turned  out  to 
the  riglit  ....  hut  they  immediately  drove  to 
the. right  also;  ....  evidently,  it  was  impossi- 
])le  to  pass  them. 

Filofei  tried  again:  he  turned  out  to  the  left. 
....  But  they  did  not  let  him  pass  on  that  side, 
either.  They  even  burst  out  laughing.  Which 
mea?it,  that  they  would  not  let  us  pass. 

''Regular  brigands!" — whispered  Filofei  to 
me  over  his  shoulder. 

"  But  wliat  are  they  waiting  for?  " — I  asked, 
also  in  a  whisper. 

"  Whv,  vonder — ahead,  in  the  ravine,  over  the 
stream — is  a  small  bridge.  .  .  .  They  're  going  to 
attack  us  there!  They  always  do  like  that  .... 
near  a  l)ridge.  We're  done  for,  master!" — he 
added,  witli  a  sigh : — "  it  is  n't  likely  that  they  will 
release  us  alive;  l)ecause  the  principal  thing  with 
tliem  is — to  hide  all  traces. — I  'm  sorry  for  one 
tiling,  master:  my  troika-team  will  be  lost,  and 
mv  brothers  will  not  get  it! " 

328 


TITE  RATTLING 

I  was  surprised  that  Filofei  could  worry  about 
his  horses  at  such  a  monieut, — and  I  must  confess 

that  1  did  not  think  much  of  him  just  then 

"  Is  it  possible  tliat  they  will  kill  us?  "  I  kept  re- 
iterating mentally. — "  What  for?  I  will  give  up 
to  them  everything  I  have  about  me.  .  .  ." 

And  the  bridge  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  became 
more  and  more  clearly  visible. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  yell  rang  out,  the  troika  in 
front  of  us  seemed  to  soar  into  the  air,  dashed  off, 
and  having  galloped  to  the  bridge,  came  to  an  ab- 
rupt halt,  as  though  rooted  to  the  spot,  a  little  to 
one  side  of  the  road.  Mv  heart  fairly  sank  into 
my  boots. 

"  Okh,  brother  Filofei,"— said  I:—"  tliou  and 
I  are  driving  to  our  death. — Forgive  me,  if  I 
have  destroyed  thee." 

"  How  is  it  thy  fault,  master!  No  one  can  es- 
cape his  fate!  Come  on,  shaggy,  my  faithful 
nag," — said  Filofei,  addressing  the  shaft-horse, 
— "  go  ahead,  brother!  Render  us  the  last  service! 

— All  together  now! Lord,  give  us  thy 

blessing!  " 

He  launched  his  troika  at  a  gentle  trot. 

We  began  to  approach  the  bridge, — to  ap- 
proach that  motionless,  menacing  cart.  .  .  .  ^Vll 
had  grown  silent  in  it,  as  though  of  set  purpose. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard !  Thus  does  the  pike, 
the  hawk,  every  beast  of  prey  grow  silent  wh.en 
its   prey   is   approaching. — And   now   we   came 

329 


ME.AIOIRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 


alongside  the  eart Suddenly  the  giant  in 

the  short  sheepskin  coat  gave  a  great  leap  from 
it,  and  dashed  straight  at  us! 

Not  a  word  did  he  say  to  Filofei,  but  the  latter 
immediately  drew  rein.  .  .  .  The  tarantas  came 
to  a  standstill. 

The  giant  laid  his  hands  on  the  carriage-door — 
and  bending  forward  his  shaggy  head,  and  grin- 
ning broadly,  he  uttered  the  following  w^ords  in 
a  quiet,  even  voice,  with  the  accent  of  a  factory- 
hand  : 

"  Respected  sir,  we  are  on  our  way  from  an 
honourable  carouse,  from  a  wedding-feast;  we 
have  been  marrying  off  our  fine  young  fellow, 
you  know;  we  have  just  put  the  young  pair  to 
bed ;  we  lads  are  all  young,  reckless, — we  've 
drunk  a  lot, — but  there  was  n't  enough  for  us  to 
get  drunk  on; — so,  will  not  you  do  us  a  favour, 
will  not  you  contribute  to  us  just  the  least  little 
bit  of  money, — so  that  we  may  buy  a  dram 
of  liquor  for  each  brother  of  us? — We  would 
drink  your  health,  we  would  remember  Your 
Stateliness;  ^ — but  if  you  will  not  do  us  the 
favour, — well,  then,  we  beg  that  you  will  not 
be  angry." 

"  What 's  the  meaning  of  this?  " — I  said  to 

'  Step^nstvo,  the  title  given  by  the  populace  to  respected  per- 
sons of  their  own  and  of  the  burgher  class.  In  Siberia,  Orenburg, 
and  the  Caucasus,  the  title  is  applied  to  Asiatic  suHans,  inurzas, 
l)ftty  princes,  and  elders,  while  it  is  decreed  by  law  to  the  Kirghiz 
sultans.  But  Khans  are  called  "Your  High-Statelines»"— Trans- 
lator. 

330 


THE  RATTLING 

myself.  ..."  Is  it  raillery?  ....  Is  lie  jeer- 
ing at  me?  " 

The  giant  eontinued  to  stand  there,  witli  bowed 

head.  At  that  instant  the  moon  emerged  from  the 

mist,  and  illuminated  liis  face.     It  was  smihntJ-, 

•was  that  face — both  with  eyes  and  lips.     iVnd  no 

menace   was    perceptible   in    it only,    it 

seemed  to  be  all  alert and  his  teeth  were 

so  white,  and  so  large.  .  . 

"  I  will  contribute  with  pleasure Here, 

take  this.  ..."  I  said  hastily — and  drawing 
my  purse  from  my  pocket,  I  took  from  it 
two  silver  rubles:  at  that  time,  silver  money  was 
still  current  in  Russia. — "  Here,  if  this  is 
enough." 

"We're  very  grateful!" — bawled  the  giant, 
in  soldier  fashion — and  his  thick  fingers  instantly 
snatched  from  me — not  my  whole  piu'se — but 
only  those  two  rubles.  "  We  're  very  grate- 
ful!"— He  shook  back  his  hair,  and  ran  to  the 
cart. 

"My  lads!" — he  shouted:  "The  gentleman- 
traveller  contributes  two  rubles  to  us !  " — They 

all    instantly    began    to    yell The    giant 

clambered  to  the  box.  .  .  . 

"  May  you  be  happy!  "... 

The  horses  started  off,  the  cart  thundered  up 
hill, — once  more  it  flashed  through  the  dark  streak 
which  separated  earth  from  heaven,  sank  into  it, 
and  vanished. 

331 


MK^rOTRS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

Aiul  now  the  rattling,  and  the  shoiithig,  and 
the  bells  were  no  longer  to  be  heard.  .  .  . 
Deathlike  silence  reigned. 

FiLOFEi  and  1  did  not  speedily  recover  ourselves. 

"  Akh,  curse  thee,  what  a  jester  thou  art! " — 
said  Filofei  at  last— and  taking  off  his  cap,  he 
began  to  cross  himself.—"  Rea%,  he  is  a  joker," 
— he  added,  and  turned  to  me,  all  radiant  with 
delight.—"  But  he  must  be  a  good  man — really! 
— No-no-noo,  my  little  ones!  bestir  yourselves! — 
You  're  safe  and  sound !  We  're  all  safe  and 
sound ! — That  's  why  he  would  n't  let  us  pass ; 
he  was  driving  the  horses.  What  a  joker  of 
a  lad.  —  No-no-no-noo !  —  proceed,  with  God's 
blessing!  " 

I  held  my  peace, — but  I  also  felt  relieved  in 
soul.  "  We  're  safe  and  sound!  " — I  repeated  to 
myself,  and  stretched  myself  out  on  the  hay. — 
"  We  got  off  cheaply !  " 

I  even  felt  a  little  conscience-stricken  at  hav- 
ing recalled  Zhukovsky's  lines. 

All  at  once  an  idea  occurred  to  me : 

"Filofei!" 

"What?" 

"  Art  thou  married?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  hast  thou  children?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  How  was  it  tliat  thou  didst  not  think  of  them? 

332 


THE  RATTLING 

Thou  wert  sorry  about  the  liorses — but  not  about 
thy  wife  and  eliildren?" 

"  But  why  should  I  feel  sorry  for  them?  They 
would  n't  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  tliieves, 
you  see. — And  1  kept  them  in  my  thoughts  all 
the  while, — and  I  'm  keeping  them  there  now 
....  so  I  am." — Filofei  stopped. — "  Perhaps 
....  it  was  for  their  sakes  that  the  Lord  God 
had  mercy  on  you  and  me." 

"  But  supposing  they  were  not  brigands?  " 

"And  how  do  we  know? — Is  it  possible  to 
crawl  into  another  man's  soul,  I  'd  like  to  know? 
— Another  man's  soul  is  ...  .  darkness  .  .  . 
everybody  knows  that.  But  't  is  always  better  to 
have  God's  blessing. — No  .  .  as  for  my  family, 
I  always  ....  Now-now-now,  little  ones,  Go-d 
be  with  us!  " 

It  was  almost  daybreak  when  we  began  to  enter 
Tula.  I  was  lying  in  the  semi-forgetfulness  of 
slumber.  .  .  . 

"  JNIaster," — said  Filofei  suddenh^  to  me, 
"look  yonder:  there  it  stands,  yonder  by  the 
dram-shop their  cart." 

I  raised  my  head  ....  it  was  they,  in  fact, 
and  their  cart,  and  their  horses.  On  the  threshold 
of  the  drinking-establishment  the  familiar  giant 
in  the  short  sheepskin  coat  suddenly  made  his  aj)- 
pearance.  "  Sir!  "  he  exclaimed,  waving  his  cap, 
"We're  drinking  up  your  money!— Well,  and 
your  coachman," — he  added,   nodding  his   head 

33.3 


ME:NrOIKS  OF  A   SPORTSMAN 

toward  Filofei, — "  1  fancy  that  fellow  w^as  pretty 
well  scared, — was  n't  he?  " 

"  A  very  jolly  fellow," — remarked  Filofei, 
Avhen  we  had  driven  about  twenty  fathoms  from 
the  dram-shop. 

We  arrived  in  Tula  at  last;  I  bought  the  bird- 
shot,  and  wine  and  tea  also,  by  the  way, — and 
even  took  a  horse  from  the  horse-dealer. — At  mid- 
day we  set  off  on  our  return  journey.  As  we 
drove  past  the  spot  where,  for  the  first  time,  we 
had  heard  the  rattling  of  the  cart  behind  us,  Filo- 
fei, who  liad  drunk  considerable  liquor  in  Tula, 
showed  himself  to  be  a  very  loquacious  man, — he 
even  narrated  stories  to  me, — as  we  drove  past 
that  spot,  Filofei  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 

"  But  dost  thou  remember,  master,  how  I  kept 
saying  to  thee : '  There  's  a  rattling  '....'  there  's 
a  rattling,'  I  said  .  .  .  .  '  there  's  a  rattling! '  " 

lie  brandished  his  hand  several  times 

These  words  struck  him  as  very  amusing. 

That  same  evening  we  reached  his  village 
again. 

I  imparted  our  adventure  to  Ermolai.  As  he 
was  sober,  he  expressed  no  sympathy,  and  merely 
grinned, — whether  approvingly  or  reprovingly, 
is  more  than  he  himself  knew,  I  suppose.  But  a 
couple  of  days  later  he  informed  me,  with  much 
satisfaction,  that  on  that  same  night  when  Filofei 
and  I  liad  driven  to  Tula, — and  on  that  selfsame 
road, — a  merchant   had   been   robbed   and   mur- 

334 


THE  RATTLING 

dered.  At  first  I  did  not  believe  this  news;  ])ut 
afterward  I  was  eonipelled  to:  tlie  eoniniissary 
of  rural  poliee  confirmed  its  veracity  to  me,  as  he 
galloped  by  to  the  inquest. — Was  it  not  from 
that  "  wedding-feast  "  that  our  bold  lads  were  re- 
turning, and  was  not  he  that  "  dashing  young  fel- 
low "  whom,  according  to  the  expression  of  the 
giant-jester,  they  had  "  put  to  bed  "?  I  remained 
for  five  days  longer  in  Filofei's  village. — And  on 
every  occasion  that  I  chanced  to  meet  him,  I  said 
to  him: — "  Hey!    There  's  a  rattling!  " 

"  A  jolly   fellow," — he   replied   to   me   every 
time,  and  began  to  laugh. 


as  5 


EPILOGUE 

FOREST  AND  STEPPE 


....   And  backward,  frradually,  longing  him  to  draw 

Began;  to  the  country,  to  the  dusky  park. 

Whose  hndens  are  so  vast,  so  dense  with  shade, 

And  hhes  of  the  valley  are  so  virginally  sweet, 

Where  globe-shaped  willows  from  the  dam 

In  serried  ranks  over  the  water  bend. 

Where  grows  tlie  luxuriant  oak  upon  the  luxuriant  raeadj 

Where  hemp  and  nettle  their  perfume  emit  .... 

Thither,  thither  away,  to  the  abundant  fields. 

Where,  like  unto  velvet  black  the  earth  lies  duskilj-. 

Where,  — turn  your  eyes  whichever  way  you  will, — 

The  rye  streams  gently  on  in  billows  soft. 

And  from  behind  transparent,  round,  white  clouds 

A  heavy  ray  of  yellow  light  falls  down 

So  beautifully  .... 

(From  a  poem  consigned  to  the  flames.) 

PERCHANCE,  the  reader  is  already  bored 
with  mv  memoirs ;  I  hasten  to  reassure  him 
with  the  promise  to  confine  myself  to  the  frag- 
ments which  have  been  printed ;  but  in  taking  my 
leave  of  him,  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying  a  few 
words  about  hunting. 

Hunting  with  gun  and  hound  is  very  fine  in 
itself,  /'//■/'  sich,  as  people  used  to  say  in  days  of 
old;  })ut,  supposing  you  were  not  born  a  sports- 
man :  nevertheless,  you  are  a  lover  of  nature ;  con- 

336 


EPILOGUE 

sequently,   you   cannot   but  envy   liuntsmen   like 
us.   .  .  .  Listen. 

Do  you  know,  for  example,  what  a  delight  it 
is  to  sally  forth  in  springtime  before  the  dawn? 
You  step  out  on  the  porch.  ...  In  the  dark-blue 
sky  stars  are  twinkling  here  and  there;  a  damp 
breeze  SAveeps  past,  from  time  to  time,  in  light 
gusts;  the  repressed,  ill-defined  whispering  of  the 
night  is  audible;  the  trees  are  rustling,  as  they 
stand  enveloped  in  shadow^  Now  they  lay  a  rug 
in  the  peasant-cart,  and  place  a  box  with  the 
samovar  at  your  feet.  The  trace-horses  fidget, 
neigh,  and  shift  coquettishly  from  foot  to  foot ;  a 
pair  of  white  geese,  which  have  just  waked  up, 
waddle  silently  and  slowly  across  the  road.  Be- 
yond the  wattled  hedge,  in  the  garden,  the  watch- 
man is  snoring  peacefully;  every  sound  seems  to 
hang  suspended  in  the  chill}^  air, — to  hang  and 
not  pass  on.  Now  you  have  taken  your  seat ;  the 
horses  have  set  off  on  the  instant,  the  cart  has 
begun  to  rattle  loudly  ....  you  drive  on  and 
on  ...  .  past  tlie  church,  down-hill  to  the  right, 
across  the  dam The  pond  is  barely  be- 
ginning to  smoke.  You  feel  a  little  cold,  you 
cover  up  your  face  with  the  collar  of  your  cloak ; 
you  sink  into  a  doze.  The  horses  plash  their  hoofs 
sonorously  through  puddles;  the  coachman  be- 
gins to  whistle.  But  now,  you  have  got  four 
versts  from  home  ....  the  rim  of  the  sky  is  be- 
ginning to  flush  crimson;  the  daws  scatter  over 

337 


EPILOGUE 

the  birch-trees,  flying  aA\k\vardly  from  tree  to 
tree:  the  sparrows  are  chirping  around  the  dark 
ricks.  Tlie  air  grows  clearer,  the  road  becomes 
\isihle,  sleepy  voices  make  themselves  heard  be- 
ll ind  tlie  o-ates.  And  in  tlie  meantime,  the  dawn 
's  kindling;  and  lo,  already  golden  streaks  have 
tlium"  themselves  athwart  the  skv,  the  mists  are 
swirling  in  the  ravines;  the  larks  are  warbling 
loudly;  the  breeze  which  precedes  the  dawn  has 
begun  to  blow, — and  the  crimson  sun  glides  softly 
up.  Tlie  light  fairly  gushes  forth  in  a  flood;  j^our 
heart  flutters  within  you,  like  a  bird.  All  is 
bright,  cheerful,  agreeable!  For  a  long  distance 
round  about  everytliing  is  visible.  There,  behind 
the  grove,  lies  a  village;  yonder,  further  away,  is 
another,  with  a  white  church;  yonder  is  a  small 
birch-coppice,  on  the  hill;  behind  it  lies  the  marsh 
whither  you  are  directing  your  course.  .  .  . 
Faster,  ye  steeds,  still  faster!  Advance  at  a 
smart  ti'ot!  ....  Only  three  versts  remain,  not 
more.  The  sun  is  rising  swiftly;  the  sky  is  clear. 
....  The  weather  will  be  magniflcent.  A  flock 
of  sheep  is  advancing  in  a  long  line,  from  the  vil- 
lage, to  meet  you.  You  have  ascended  the  hill. 
.  .  .  AVhat  a  view!  The  river  winds  about  for  ten 
versts,  gleaming  dully  blue  through  the  mist;  be 
yond  it  lie  watery-green  meadows;  beyond  the 
meadows  are  sloping  hillocks;  far  away,  lapwings 
are  hovering  and  calling  over  the  marsh;  athwart 
the  moist  gleam  difl'used  in  the  air,  the  distance 

338 


EPILOGUE 

stands  forth  clearly  ....  not  as  in  suinincr. 
How  boldly  the  bosom  heaves,  how  swiitly  the 
limbs  move,  how  strong  the  whole  man  becomes, 
thus  seized  in  the  embrace  of  the  fresh  breath  of 
the  spring!  .  .  . 

And  the  summer — July — morning!  AVho,  save 
the  sportsman,  has  experienced  the  joy  of  wan- 
dering at  dawn  among  the  bushes?  The  trace  of 
your  footsteps  leaves  a  green  line  on  tlic  dewy, 
whitened  grass.  You  thrust  aside  the  wet  bushes, 
— you  are  fairly  drenched  with  the  warm  perfume 
which  has  accumulated  over  night;  the  air  is  all 
impregnated  with  the  fresh  bitterness  of  worm- 
wood, the  honey  of  buckwheat  and  clover;  far 
away,  like  a  wall,  stands  an  oak  forest,  glittering 
and  crimsoning  in  tlie  sun ;  it  is  still  chill}^  but  the 
approaching  heat  can  be  felt.  The  head  swims 
with  the  excess  of  perfume.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  thicket.  .  .  .  Here  and  there,  perchance,  in 
the  distance,  the  ripening  rye  gleams  yellow,  and 
the  narrow  strips  of  buckwheat  shine  with  a  red- 
dish glint.  Now  a  cart  creaks;  a  peasant  is 
making  his  way  along  at  a  foot-pace,  to  put  his 
horse  in  the  shade  as  soon  as  possible.  .  .  .  You 
have  exchanged  greetings  with  him,  and  have 
gone  on,  when  the  ringing  whine  of  the  scythe  re- 
sounds behind  vou.  The  sun  rides  higher  and 
higher.  The  grass  will  soon  be  drv.  It  is  already 
hot.  One  hour  passes,  then  anotlicr.  .  .  .  The 
sky  grows  dark  along  the  rim;  the  motionless  air 

339 


EPILOGUE 

is  l)laziiig  with  stingino-  heat. — "  Where  can  I  get 
a  (h-ink,  hrotherT' — you  ask  a  mower. — "  Yon- 
(kr,  in  tlie  ravine,  is  a  well."  You  descend  to  the 
l)ottoin  of  the  ravine,  tlu'ongh  tlie  dense  hazel- 
hushes,  all  intertwined  witli  tenacious  grass. 
And,  in  fact,  heneatli  the  very  cliff  a  spring  is 
concealed;  an  oak-hush  has  eagerly  thrown  over 
the  water  its  claw-like  branches;  great,  silvery 
l)ubbles  rise,  dimpling,  from  the  bottom  cov- 
ered witli  fine,  velvety  moss.  You  throw  yourself 
down  on  the  ground,  you  drink>  but  languor  is  be- 
ginning to  stir  within  von.  You  are  in  the  shade, 
you  are  inhaling  the  fragrant  moisture,  you  are 
comfortable^  wliile  opposite  you  the  bushes  are 
getting  red-liot,  and  seem  to  be  turning  yellow  in 
the  sun.  But  what  is  this?  A  breeze  has  sud- 
denly flown  up  and  dashed  past;  the  surrounding 
air  has  quivered;  is  not  that  a  clap  of  thunder? 
You  emerge  from  the  ravine  ....  what  is  yon 
leaden  streak  on  the  horizon?  Is  the  sultry  heat 
growing  more  intense?  Is  it  a  tliunder-cloud 
coming  up?  ....  But  now  comes  a  faint  flash 
of  lightning.  .  .  .  Eh,  yes,  it  is  a  thunder-storm! 
The  sun  is  still  shining  brilliantly  round  about 
you;  it  is  still  possible  to  hunt.  But  the  cloud 
waxes:  its  front  edge  throws  out  a  branch, it  bends 
over  into  a  vault.  The  grass,  the  bushes,  every- 
thing round  about  lias  grown  dark  of  a  sudden. 
.  .  .  Be  quick!  yonder,  methinks,  a  hay-barn  is 
\isi})le  ....  be  quick! You  have  fled 

340 


EPILOGUE 

to  it,  have  entered.  .  .  .  What  rain!  what  h^lit- 
ning!  Here  and  there  the  water  has  di'ipped 
througli  upon  the  fragrant  liay.  .  .  .  But  now 
the  sun  has  hroken  forth  again.  The  thunder- 
storm lias  passed  over;  you  step  out.  Heavens, 
liow  merrily  everything  round  ahout  is  sparkling, 
how  fresh  and  thin  the  air  is,  what  a  strong  scent 
of  strawberries  and  mushrooms  is  abroad!  .  .  . 

But  now  evening  is  drawing  on.  The  sun- 
set glow  has  embraced  half  the  sky  in  its  confla- 
gration. The  sun  is  setting.  The  air  close  at 
hand  seems  somehow  peculiarly  translucent,  like 
glass;  far  away  a  soft  mist  is  spreading,  and  is 
warm  in  aspect;  along  with  the  dew  a  crimson 
glow  falls  upon  the  fields,  so  recently  flooded  with 
streams  of  liquid  gold ;  long  shadows  have  begun 
to  run  out  from  the  trees,  from  the  bushes,  from 
the  lofty  ricks  of  hay.  .  .  .  The  sun  has  set;  a 
star  has  kindled  and  is  trembling  in  the  fiery  sea 
of  the  sunset.  .  .  .  Now  it  waxes  pale;  the  sky 
grows  blue;  separate  shadows  disappear;  the  air 
is  permeated  with  vapour.  'T  is  time  to  go  home 
to  the  village,  to  the  cottage  where  you  are  to 
spend  the  night.  Throwing  your  gun  over  your 
shoulder,  you  walk  briskly  on,  in  spite  of  the  dis- 
tance. .  .  .  And,  in  the  meantime,  night  has 
come ;  you  can  no  longer  see  twenty  ])aces  in  front 
of  you ;  the  dogs  are  barely  visible  as  ^vhite  spots 
in  the  gloom;  yonder,  above  the  black  bushes,  the 

rim  of  the  sky  is  confusedly  perceptible 

341 


EPILOGUE 

Whid  is  that?— a  fire?  ...  .  No,  it  is  the  moon 
risinff.  And  vonder,  down  below,  to  the  right,  the 
tinv  hghts  of  a  viUage  are  twinkhng.  .  .  .  Now, 
at  last,  you  reach  your  cottage.  Through  the  tiny 
window  you  descry  the  table,  covered  wdth  a  wliite 
cloth,  a  burning  candle, — supper.  .  .  . 

Or  you  order  your  racing-drozhky  to  be  har- 
nessed up,  and  set  out  in  quest  of  hazel-hens. 
'T  is  jolly  to  make  your  way  along  the  narrow 
path,  between  two  walls  of  lofty  rye.  The  ears 
slap  you  gently  in  the  face,  the  corn-flowers  cling 
al)(>ut  your  feet,  the  quail  utter  their  calls  all 
around  you,  your  horse  runs  on  in  a  lazy  trot. 
And  now  here  is  the  forest.  Shade  and  silence. 
The  stately  aspens  are  whispering  high  overhead ; 
the  long,  pendent  branches  of  the  birch-trees  are 
barely  stirring;  a  mighty  oak  stands,  like  a  war- 
rior, by  the  side  of  a  handsome  linden.  You  drive 
along  the  green  pathway  flecked  with  shadows; 
huge  yellow  flies  hang  motionless  in  the  golden 
air  and  suddenly  fly  away;  gnats  circle  in  a  col- 
umn, gleaming  brightly  in  the  shadow,  darkling 
in  the  sunlight;  birds  warble  peacefully.  The 
golden  voice  of  the  hedge-sparrow  rings  with  in- 
nocent, loquacious  joy;  it  fits  in  with  the  perfume 
of  the  lilies  of  tlie  valley.  Further,  further  yet, 
into  the  depths  of  the  forest.  .  .  .  The  forest 
grows  dense.  .  .  .  Inexpressible  tranquillity 
falls  upon  the  soul;  and  all  round  is  so  dreamy 
and  (juiet!    But  now  a  breeze  has  sprung  up,  and 

342 


EPlLOCiUE 

the  crests  of  the  trees  have  begun  to  ripple,  hkc 
falling  waves.  Here  and  thei-e  tall  blades  oj' 
grass  are  springing  up  through  last  year's  brown 
foliage;  mushrooms  stand  apart  beneath  their 
caps.  A  hare  suddenly  leaps  out,  a  dog  dashes  in 
pursuit  with  a  ringing  bark.  ... 

And  how  fine  is  the  same  forest  in  late  autumn, 
when  the  woodcock  are  flying!  They  do  not  har- 
bour in  the  very  densest  parts:  they  must  be 
sought  along  the  edges.  There  is  no  wind,  tliere 
is  neither  sun,  nor  light,  nor  shadow,  nor  move- 
ment, nor  noise;  the  autumnal  scent,  akin  to  the 
smell  of  wine,  is  disseminated  through  the  soft 
air;  a  thin  mist  stands  far  off  aliove  the  vellow 
fields.  The  motionless  sky  gleams  peacefully 
white  between  the  brown,  naked  branches  of  the 
trees ;  here  and  there  on  the  lindens  hang  the  last 
golden  leaves.  The  damp  earth  is  springy  under 
foot;  the  tall,  dry  grass-blades  do  not  stir;  long- 
threads  glisten  on  the  whitened  grass.  The 
breast  rises  and  falls  in  quiet  breathing,  and  a 
strange  disquietude  descends  upon  tlie  soul.  You 
stroll  along  the  skirt  of  the  forest,  you  glance  at 
your  dog,  and,  meanwhile,  beloved  images,  be- 
loved faces,  both  dead  and  living,  come  to  mind, 
impressions  long  since  sunk  to  sleej)  unexpect- 
edly wake  up;  your  imagination  flutters  and  soars 
like  a  bird,  and  everything  moves  along  and 
stands  before  the  eves  so  clearlv.  The  heart  sud- 
denly  begins  to  quiver  and  throb,  dashes  passion- 

343 


EPILOGUE 

ately  ahead,  or  is  irrevocably  submerged  in 
memories.  The  n\  hole  of  life  unfolds  lightly  and 
swiftly,  like  a  scroll;  the  man  is  in  full  possession 
of  his  past,  his  feelings,  his  whole  soul.  And  no- 
thing round  about  him  hinders — there  is  no  sun, 
no  \\ind,  uo  noise.  .  .  . 

And  the  clear,  somewhat  chilly  autumnal  day, 
which  has  been  cold  in  early  morning,  when  the 
birch,  like  a  fabulous  tree,  all  gold,  is  beautifully 
outlined  against  the  pale-blue  sky,  when  the  low- 
hanging  sun  no  longer  warms,  but  shines  more 
brilliantly  than  in  summer,  the  small  aspen  grove 
is  all  glittering  through  and  through,  as  though 
it  found  it  a  merry  and  easy  thing  to  stand  naked, 
the  hoar-frost  is  still  lying  white  on  the  bottom  of 
the  ravine,  and  the  fresh  breeze  is  softly  stirring 
and  driving  along  the  fallen,  withered  leaves, — - 
when  blue  waves  dash  gaih^  down  the  river,  rock- 
ing the  scattered  geese  in  regular  measure,  and 
far  away  a  mill  is  clattering,  half-hidden  by  wil- 
lo^vs,  and  pigeons  circle  swiftly  above  it,  flashing 
in  motley  hues  through  the  bright  air.  .  . 

Beautiful  also  are  the  cloudy  summer  daj^s,  al- 
though the  sportsman  does  not  love  them.  On 
such  days  shooting  is  impossible:  a  bird,  after  flut- 
tering up  from  under  your  very  feet,  instantly 
disappears  in  the  whitish  mist  of  the  motionless 
haze.  But  how  quiet,  how  inexpressibly  quiet  is 
everything  around!  Everything  is  awake,  and 
everything  is  silent.     You  walk  past  a  tree — it  is 

344. 


EPIT.OGUE 

not  rustling;  it  is  taking  its  ease.  A  long  streak 
lies  blaekly  before  you,  spread  out  evenly  in  tlie 
air,  like  a  thin  vapour.  You  take  it  for  the  forest 
hard  by;  you  approacli — the  forest  turns  into  a 
tall  bed  of  wormwood  on  the  grass-strip  between 
the  tilled  fields.  Above  you,  around  you, — every- 
where, lies  the  mist.  .  .  .  But  now  the  breeze  is 
beginning  to  stir  lightly. — A  scrap  of  pale-blue 
sky  stands  forth  confusedly  through  the  tliinning, 
smoke-like  vapour,  a  golden-yellow  ray  of  sun- 
light suddenly  breaks  forth,  begins  to  stream  in  a 
long  flood,  beats  upon  the  fields,  rests  upon  the 
grove, — and  now,  everything  is  again  shrouded  in 
clouds.  For  a  long  time  does  this  conflict  last; 
but  how  unutterably  magnificent  and  clear  does 
the  day  become,  when  the  light  at  last  triumphs, 
and  the  last  waves  of  heated  mist  roll  away  and 
spread  out  like  a  table-cloth,  or  wreathe  about  and 
vanish  in  the  deep,  tenderly-radiant  heights  of 
heaven!  .  .  . 

But  now  you  have  betaken  yourself  to  the  re- 
mote  fields,  to  the  steppes.  You  have  driven  ten 
versts  along  country  roads, — and  here,  at  last,  is 
the  highway.  For  a  long,  long  time,  you  drive 
past  endless  trains  of  freight-wagons,  past  tiny 
posting-stations  with  a  hissing  samovar  under  the 
shed,  wide-open  gates  and  a  well,  from  one 
church-village  to  another,  through  boundless 
fields,  along  green  hemp-patches.  ^Magpies  flut- 
ter from  willow  to  willow;  peasant  women,  with 

345 


EPILOGUE 

long  rakes  in  their  hands,  roam  about  the  fields;  a 
wayfare)\  in  a  tliieadbare  nankeen  kaftan,  with  a 
wallet  on  his  back,  trudges  wearily  along;  the 
heavy  carriage  of  a  landed  proprietor  rolls 
sniootlily  to\\ard  you,  drawn  by  six  well-grown 
and  broken-winded  horses.  From  the  window 
projects  the  corner  of  a  pillow,  and  on  the  foot- 
board, clinging  to  a  cord,  sits  a  footman  sideways, 
wrap|)e(l  in  a  cloak,  and  mud-bespattered  to  the 
very  eyebro\vs.  Here  is  a  wretched  little  county 
town,  with  wooden  houses  all  askew,  interminable 
fences,  uninhabited  stone  buildings  belonging  to 
merchants,  and  an  ancient  bridge  over  a  deep 
ra^'ine.  .  .  .  Furtlier,  further!  ....  The  steppe 
regions  have  begun.  You  cast  a  glance  from  the 
crest  of  a  hill — what  a  view!  Round,  low  hillocks, 
l)l()ughcd  and  planted  to  their  very  summits, 
s])read  out  in  broad  waves;  ravines  overgrown 
with  bushes  wind  about  between  them;  small 
groves  are  scattered  ab(jut,  like  long  islands ;  from 
village  to  village  run  narrow  paths;  churches 
gleam  white;  between  the  sides  of  the  cliffs  a 
little  river  glitters,  traversed  in  four  places  bj-- 
dams;  far  away  in  the  fields  bustards  stand  up 
prominently  in  goose  file;  an  ancient  manor- 
liouse,  with  its  offices,  its  fruit-orchard  and  thresh- 
ing-floor, is  nestled  down  beside  a  tiny  pond. 
But  you  drive  further  and  further.  The  hills 
grow  smaller  and  smaller,  hardly  a  tree  is  to  be 

346 


EPIIX)(;UE 

seen.  Here  it  is,  at  last,  the  boundless,  limitless 
steppe!  .  .  . 

And  on  a  winter  day  to  roam  anion <»•  the  tall 
snow-drifts  in  seareh  of  hares,  to  inhale  the  keen, 
frosty  air,  involuntarily  to  narrow  the  eyes  from 
the  dazzling,  fine  glitter  of  the  soft  snow,  to  ad- 
mire the  green  hue  of  the  sky  aboAe  the  reddish 
forest!  ....  And  the  first  spring  days,  when 
everything  round  about  is  glittering  and  falling; 
athwart  the  heavy  steam  of  the  meltino;  snow 
there  is  already  an  odour  of  the  warming  earth; 
on  the  thawed  spots,  beneath  the  slanting  rays  of 
the  sun,  the  larks  are  warbling  with  confidence; 
and,  with  merry  noise  and  roar,  the  floods  gather 
from  ravine  to  ravine.  .  .  . 

But  it  is  time  to  end.  Ey  the  way, — I  have 
mentioned  the  spring:  in  spring  it  is  easy  to  part, 
in  spring  the  happy  long  to  rove  afar.  .  .  . 
Farewell,  reader:  I  wish  you  permanent  good 
fortune. 


347 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

(1858) 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 


THE  brilliant,  spring  day  was  inclining 
toward  the  evening,  tiny  rose-tinted  cloud- 
lets hung  high  in  the  heavens,  and  seemed  not  to 
be  floating  past,  but  retreating  into  the  very 
depths  of  the  azin-e. 

In  front  of  the  open  window  of  a  handsome 
house,  in  one  of  the  outlying  streets  of  O  *  *  * 
the  capital  of  a  Go\  ernment,  sat  two  women ;  one 
fifty  years  of  age,  the  other  seventy  years  old,  and 
already  aged. 

The  former  was  named  INIarya  Dmitrievna 
Kalitin.  Her  husband,  formerly  the  govern- 
mental procurator,  well  known  in  his  day  as  an 
active  official — a  man  of  energetic  and  decided 
character,  splenetic  and  stubborn — had  died  ten 
years  previously.  He  had  received  a  fairly  go(xl 
education,  had  studied  at  the  university,  l)ut,  liax- 
ing  been  born  in  a  poverty-stricken  class  of  so- 
ciety, he  had  early  comprehended  the  necessity 
of  opening  up  a  way  for  himself,  and  of  accumu- 
lating money.     jNIarya  Dmitrievna  had  married 

3 


A  XOBI.EMAX'S  NEST 

liim  for  love-;  he  was  far  from  uncomely  in  ap- 
pearance, 1r'  was  clever,  and,  when  he  chose,  he 
couUi  be  very  amiable,  ^larya  Dnn'trievna  (her 
maiden  name  had  been  PestofF)  had  lost  her  pa- 
rents in  early  childhood,  had  spent  several  j^ears 
in  ^loseo^\ ,  in  a  government  educational  institute, 
nil  1,  on  returning  thence,  had  lived  fifty  versts 
from  ()***,  in  her  native  village,  Pokrovskoe, 
with  lier  aunt  and  her  elder  brother.  This  bro- 
ther soon  removed  to  Petersburg  on  service,  and 
kept  his  sister  and  his  aunt  on  short  commons, 
until  liis  sudden  death  put  an  end  to  his  career. 
]Marya  Dnn'trievna  inherited  Pokrovskoe, but  did 
not  live  there  long;  din-ing  the  second  year  after 
her  marriage  to  Kalitiii,  who  succeeded  in  con- 
quering her  heart  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Po- 
krcSvskoe  w^as  exchanged  for  another  estate,  mucli 
more  profitable,  but  ugly  and  without  a  manor- 
house,  and,  at  the  same  time,  Kalitin  acquired  a 
house  in  the  town  of  O  *  *  *,  and  settled  down 
there  permanently  with  his  wife.  A  large  gar- 
den was  attaelied  to  the  house;  on  one  side,  it 
joined  (hrectly  on  to  the  open  fields,  beyond  the 
town.  Kalitin, — who  greatly  disliked  the  stagna- 
tion of  the  country, — had  evidently  made  up  his 
mind,  that  there  w^as  no  reason  for  dragging  out 
existence  on  the  estate.  Marya  Dnn'trievna,  manv 
a  time,  in  her  own  mind  regretted  Iier  pretty  Po- 
krovskoe, with  its  merry  little  stream,  its  broad 
meadows,  and  verdant  groves;  but  she  opposed 

4 


A  NOBLKi\IAN\S   NEST 

ner  Imsbaiid  in  nothing,  and  worsliippcd  his  clev- 
erness and  knowledge  of  the  world.  But  when, 
after  fifteen  years  of  married  life,  he  died,  leav- 
ing a  son  and  two  daughters,  Marya  Dniitrievna 
had  become  so  wonted  to  her  house,  and  to  town 
life,  that  she  herself  did  not  wish  to  leave  O  *  *  *. 

In  her  youth,  IVIarya  Dmitrievna  had  enjoyed 
the  reputation  of  being  a  pretty  blonde,  and  at 
the  age  of  fifty  her  features  were  not  devoid 
of  attraction,  although  they  had  become  some- 
what swollen  and  indefinite  in  outline.  She  was 
more  sentimental  than  kind,  and  even  in  her  ma- 
ture age  she  had  preserved  the  habits  of  her 
school-days;  she  indulged  herself,  was  easily  irri- 
tated, and  even  wept  when  her  ways  were  inter- 
fered with;  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  very  af- 
fectionate  and  amiable,  when  all  her  wishes  were 
complied  with,  and  when  no  one  contradicted 
her.  Her  house  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
in  the  town.  Her  fortune  was  very  considerable, 
not  so  much  her  inherited  fortune,  as  that  acquired 
by  her  husband.  Both  her  daughters  lived  with 
her;  her  son  was  being  educated  at  one  of  the 
best  government  institutions  in  Petersburg. 

The  old  woman,  who  was  sitting  by  the  window 
with  ^larya  Dmitrievna,  was  that  same  aunt,  her 
father's  sister,  with  whom  she  had  spent  several 
years,  in  days  gone  by,  at  Pokrovskoe.  Her  name 
was  Marfa  Timofeevna  PestofF.  She  bore  the 
reputation  of  being  eccentric,  had  an  independent 

5 


A  XOET.EMAX'S  XEST 

c'liaracter,  tokl  tlie  entire  truth  to  every  one, 
straight  in  tlie  face,  and,  with  the  most  scanty 
resources,  bore  herself  as  though  she  possessed 
tliousands.  She  had  not  been  able  to  endure  the 
deceased  Kalitin,  and  as  soon  as  her  niece  married 
liim,  she  retired  to  her  tiny  estate,  where  she  lived 
for  ten  whole  years  in  the  hen-liouse  of  a  peasant. 
]Marya  Dmitrievna  was  afraid  of  lier.  Black- 
haired  and  brisk-eyed  even  in  her  old  age,  tiny, 
sliarp-nosed  Marfa  Timofeevna  walked  quickty, 
held  herself  ui)riglit,  and  talked  rapidly  and  in- 
telligibly, in  a  shrill,  ringing  voice.  She  always 
wore  a  white  cap  and  a  wliite  jacket. 

"  What  art  thou  doing  that  for? — "  she  sud- 
denly inquired  of  INIarya  Dmitrievna. — "  What 
art  thou  sighing  about,  my  mother?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  other. — "  What  wonder- 
full  v  beautiful  clouds!" 

"  So,  thou  art  sorry  for  them,  is  that  it?  " 

]Marva  Dmitrievna  made  no  replv. 

"  Isn't  that  Gedeonovsky  coming  yonder?" — 
said  ^larfa  Timofeevna,  briskly  moving  her  knit- 
ting-needles (she  was  knitting  a  huge,  motley- 
hued  scarf).  "  He  might  keep  thee  company  in 
sighing, — or,  if  not,  he  might  tell  us  some  lie  or 
other."' 

"  How  harslily  thou  always  speakest  about 
liim!     Sergyei  Petrovitch  is  an — estimable  man." 

"FiStimable!"  repeated  the  old  woman  re- 
proachfully. 

6 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NPLST 

"  And  how  devoted  he  was  to  my  dead  hus- 
band!" remarked  Marya  Dniitrievna; — "to  this 
day,  1  cannot  tliink  of  it  with  indifference." 

"  I  shoukl  think  not!  he  ])ulled  liim  out  of  the 
mire  by  his  ears," — growled  ^larfa  Timofeevna, 
and  her  knitting-needles  moved  still  more  swiftly 
in  her  hands. 

"  He  looks  like  such  a  meek  creature," — slie 
began  again, — "  his  head  is  all  grey,  but  no  sooner 
does  he  open  his  mouth,  than  he  lies  or  calumni- 
ates. And  he 's  a  State  Councillor,  to  boot ! 
Well,  he's  a  priest's  son:  and  there's  nothing- 
more  to  be  said !  " 

"Who  is  without  sin,  aunty?  Of  course,  he 
has  that  weakness.  Sergyei  Petrovitch  received 
no  education, — of  course  he  does  not  speak 
French ;  but,  say  what  you  will,  he  is  an  agreeable 
man." 

"  Yes,  he 's  always  licking  thy  hand.  He 
does  n't  talk  French, — what  a  calamity !  I  'm  not 
strong  on  the  French  '  dialect '  myself.  'T  would 
be  better  if  he  did  not  speak  any  language  at  all : 
then  he  would  n't  lie.  But  there  he  is,  by  the  way 
— speak  of  the  devil, — "  added  INIarfa  Timo- 
feevna, glancing  into  the  street. — "  There  he 
strides,  thine  agreeable  man.  What  a  long-legged 
fellow,  just  like  a  stork." 

Marya  Dmitrievna  adjusted  her  curls.  Marfa 
Timofeevna  w^atchcd  her  with  a  grin. 

"  Hast  thou  not  a  grey  liair  there,  my  mother? 

7 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Thou  sliouldst  scold  thy  Paldshka.  Why  does  n't 
she  see  it  ?  " 

"  Oh.  aiiiitv,  you're  always  so  ...  "  muttered 
Marya  Dniitrievna,  with  yexation,  and  drummed 
on  the  arm  of  her  chair  witli  her  fingers. 

"  Sergyei  Petroyitch  Gedeonoysky ! "  squeaked 
a  red-cheeked  page-lad,  springing  in  through  the 
door. 


8 


II 

There  entered  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  in  a  neat 
coat,  short  trousers,  grey  chamois-skin  gloves,  and 
two  neckties — one  black,  on  top,  and  the  other 
wliite,  underneath.  Everything  about  Iiim  ex- 
haled decorum  and  propriety,  beginning  with  his 
good-looking  face  and  smoothly  brushed  temple- 
curls,  and  ending  with  his  boots,  wliicli  liad  neither 
heels  nor  squeak.  He  bowed  first  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  then  to  Marfa  Timofeevna,  and 
slowly  drawing  off  his  gloves,  took  Marya  Dmi- 
trievna's  hand.  After  kissing  it  twice  in  suc- 
cession, with  respect,  he  seated  himself,  without 
haste,  in  an  arm-chair,  and  said  with  a  smile,  as 
he  rubbed  the  very  tips  of  his  fingers : 

"And  is  Elizaveta  JNIikhailovna  well?" 

"  Yes," — replied  JNIarya  Dmitrievna, — "  she  is 
in  the  garden." 

"  And  Elena  INIikhailovna?  " 

"  Lyenotchka  is  in  the  garden  also.  Is  there 
anything  new?  " 

"  How  could  there  fail  to  be,  ma'am,  how  could 
there  fail  to  be,"  —returned  tlie  visitor,  slowly 
blinking  his  eyes,  and  protruding  his  lips.    "  Hm ! 

9 


A  XOl^LKMxVN  S  NEST 

.  .  .  now ,  here  s  a  bit  of  news,  if  you  please,  and 
a  very  astounding'  bit:  Lavretzky,  Feodor  Iva- 
nitch,  has  arrived/' 

••  FedyaT' — exchiimed  INIarfa  Timofeevna. 
— "  But  come  now.  my  father,  art  not  thou  in- 
venting that?  " 

"  Xot  in  the  least,  ma'am,  I  saw  him  myself." 

"  AVell,  that  's  no  proof." 

"  He  has  recovered  his  health  finely," — went 
on  Gedeonovsky,  pretending  not  to  hear  ISIarfa 
Timofeevna's  remark: — "he  has  grown  broader 
in  the  shoulders,  and  the  rosy  colour  cov^ers  the 
whole  of  his  cheeks." 

"  He  has  recovered  his  health," — ejaculated 
]Marya  Dmitrievna,  with  pauses: — "that  means, 
that  he  had  something  to  recover  from?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am," — returned  Gedeonovsky: — 
"  Any  other  man,  in  his  place,  wovdd  have  l>een 
ashamed  to  show  himself  in  the  world." 

"  Why  so?  " — interrupted  Marfa  Timofeevna; 
— "  what  nonsense  is  this?  A  man  returns  to  his 
native  place — what  would  you  have  him  do  with 
himself?    And  as  if  he  were  in  any  way  to  blame !" 

"  The  husband  is  always  to  blame,  madam,  I 
\enture  to  assure  you,  when  the  wife  behaves 
badly." 

"  Thou  sayest  that,  my  good  sir,  because  thou 
hast  never  been  married  thyself."  Gedeonovsky 
smiled  in  a  constrained  way. 

"  Permit  me  to  inquire,"  he  asked,  after  a  brief 

10 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

pause, — "  for   whom    is    that    very    pretty    scarf 
destined?  " 

Marfa  Timofeevna  cast  a  swift  ghmee  at  Iiiiii. 

"  It  is  destined  " — she  retorted, — "for  the  man 
who  never  gossips,  nor  uses  craft,  nor  hes,  if  such 
a  man  exists  in  the  world.  I  know  Fedya  well; 
his  sole  fault  is,  that  he  was  too  indulgent  to  his 
wife.  Well,  he  married  for  love,  and  nothing 
good  ever  comes  of  those  love-marriages," — 
added  the  old  woman,  casting  a  sidelong  glance 
at  jMarya  Dmitrievna,  and  rising. — "And  now, 
dear  little  father,  thou  mayest  whet  thy  teeth  on 
whomsoever  thou  wilt,  only  not  on  me;  I  'm  going 
away,  I  won't  interfere." — And  Marfa  Timo- 
feevna withdrew. 

"  There,  she  is  always  like  that," — said  ]Marva 
Dmitrievna,  following  her  aunt  with  her  eyes: — 
"  Always!  " 

"  It 's  her  age !  There  's  no  help  for  it,  ma'am!" 
remarked  Gedeonovsky. — "  There  now,  she  per- 
mitted herself  to  say :  '  the  man  who  does  not  use 
craft.'  But  who  does  n't  use  craft  nowadays? 
it 's  the  spirit  of  the  age.  One  of  my  friends,  a 
very  estimable  person,  and,  I  must  tell  you,  a  man 
of  no  mean  rank,  was  wont  to  say :  that  '  now- 
adays, a  hen  approaches  a  grain  of  corn  craftily 
— she  keeps  watching  her  chance  to  get  to  it  from 
one  side.'  But  when  I  look  at  vou,  mv  ladv,  vou 
have  a  truly  angelic  disposition ;  please  to  favour 
me  with  your  snow-white  little  hand." 

11 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Marya  Dniitricviia  smiled  faintly,  and  ex- 
tended her  plump  hand,  with  the  little  finger 
standing  out  apart,  to  Gedeonovsky.  He  applied 
his  lips  to  it,  and  she  moved  her  arm-chair  closer 
to  him,  and  hending  slightly  toward  him,  she 
asked  in  a  low  tone: 

"  So,  you  have  seen  him?  Is  he  really — all 
right,  well,  cheerful  ?  " 

"He  is  cheerful,  ma'am;  all  right,  ma'am," 
returned  Gedeonovsky,  in  a  whisper. 

"  And  you  have  not  heard  where  his  wife  is 
now?  " 

"  She  has  recently  been  in  Paris,  ma'am;  now, 
I  hear,  she  has  removed  to  the  kingdom  of  Italy." 

"  It  is  dreadful,  really, — Fedya's  position ;  I 
do  not  know  how  he  can  endure  it.  Accidents  do 
happen,  w^ith  every  one,  in  fact;  but  he,  one  may 
say,  has  been  advertised  all  over  Europe." 

Gedeonovsky  sighed. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am.  Why,  she,  they 
say,  has  struck  up  accjuaintance  with  artists,  and 
])ianists,  and,  as  they  call  it  in  their  fashion,  with 
lions  and  wild  beasts.  She  has  lost  her  shame, 
completely.  .  ." 

"  It  is  very,  very  sad," — said  INIarya  Dmi- 
trievna: — "on  account  of  the  relationship;  for 
you  know,  Sergyei  Petrovitch,  he  's  my  nephew, 
once  removed." 

"  Of  course,  ma'am;  of  course,  ma'am.  How 
could   I   fail  to  be  aware  of  everything  which 

12 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

relates     to     your     family  C      Upon     my     word, 
ma  am ! 

"  Will  he  come  to  see  us, — what  do  you  think?  " 

"  We  must  assume  that  he  will,  ma'am;  hut  1 
hear,  that  he  is  going  to  his  country  estate." 

JNIarya  Dmltrie^'na  cast  her  eyes  heavenward. 

"  Akh,  Sergyei  Petrovitch,  when  1  think  of  it, 
how  circumspectly  we  women  must  behave!  " 

"  There  are  different  sorts  of  women,  Marya 
Dmitrievna.  T Unfortunately,  there  are  some  of 
fickle  character  .  .  .  well,  and  it 's  a  question  of 
age,  also;  then,  again,  the  rules  have  not  been  in- 
culcated in  their  childhood."  (Sergvei  PetnS- 
vitch  pulled  a  checked  blue  handkerchief  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  began  to  unfold  it). — "Such 
women  exist,  of  course,"  (Sergyei  Petrovitch 
raised  a  corner  of  the  handkerchief  to  his  eyes, 
one  after  the  other), — "  but,  generally  speaking, 
if  we  take  into  consideration,  that  is  .  .  .  There  is 
an  unusual  amount  of  dust  in  town,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

"  Main  an,  main  an  " — screamed  a  pretty  little 
girl  of  eleven,  as  she  rushed  into  the  room: — 
"  Vladimir  Nikolaitch  is  coming  to  our  house  on 
horseback!  " 

Marya  Dmitrievna  rose;  Sergyei  Petrovitcli 
also  rose  and  bowed: — "  Our  most  humble  salute 
to  Elena  ^likhailovna,"  he  said,  and  withdrawing 
into  a  corner,  out  of  propriety,  he  began  to  blow 
his  long  and  regularly-formed  nose. 

13 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

*'  What  a  splendid  horse  he  has! — "  went  on 
tlii?  httle  girl. — "  He  was  at  the  gate  just  now, 
and  told  Liza  and  me,  that  he  would  ride  up  to 
the  porch." 

The  trampling  of  hoofs  became  audible;  and  a 
stately  horseman,  on  a  fine  brown  steed,  made  his 
appearance  in  the  street,  and  halted  in  front  of 
the  open  window. 


14 


Ill 

"Good  afternoon,  Marya  Dmitrievna!" — ex- 
claimed the  horsenian,  in  a  ringing,  agreeable 
voice. — "  How  do  you  like  my  new  purchase?  " 

Marya  Dmitrievna  went  to  the  window. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Woldemar!  Akh,  wliat  a 
magnificent  horse!    From  whom  did  j'^ou  buy  it?  " 

"  From  the  remount  officer.  .  .  He  asked  a 
high  price,  the  robber!  " 

"  What  is  its  name?  " 

"Orlando.  .  .  .  But  that's  a  stupid  name;  I 
want  to  change  it.  .  .  Eh  hien,  eh  hien,  mon 
gaiyon.  .  .  What  a  turbulent  beast !  "  The  horse 
snorted,  shifted  from  foot  to  foot,  and  tossed  his 
foaming  muzzle. 

"  Pat  liim,  Lenotchka,  have  no  fears.  .  .  " 

The  little  girl  stretched  her  hand  out  of  the 
window,  but  Orlando  suddenly  reared  up,  and 
leaped  aside.  The  rider  did  not  lose  control, 
gripped  the  horse  with  liis  knees,  gave  him  a  lash 
on  the  neck  with  his  whip,  and,  despite  his  oppo- 
sition, placed  him  once  more  in  front  of  the 
window. 

''Prenez  garde!  jjrenez  garde!" — ^larya  Dmi- 
trievna kept  repeating. 

15 


A  XOTU.EMAN  S  XEST 

"  Pat  liiiii,  Lycnotdika," — returned  the  rider, 
— "  I  will  not  permit  him  to  be  wilful." 

Again  the  little  girl  stretehed  forth  her  hand, 
and  timidly  touched  the  quivering  nostrils  of  Or- 
lando, wlio  trembled  incessantly  and  strained  at 
the  bit. 

"  Bravo!  " — exclaimed  ^larya  Dnu'trievna, — 
"  and  now,  dismount,  and  come  in." 

The  liorseman  turned  his  steed  round  adroitly, 
gave  him  the  spurs,  and  after  dashing  along  the 
street  at  a  brisk  gallop,  rode  into  the  yard.  A 
minute  later,  he  ran  in  through  the  door  of  the 
anteroom  into  the  drawing-room,  flourishing  his 
whip;  at  the  same  moment,  on  the  threshold  of 
another  door,  a  tall,  graceful,  black-haired  girl 
of  nineteen — ^larya  Dmitrievna's  eldest  daugh- 
ter, Liza — made  her  appearance. 


16 


IV 

The  young  man,  with  whom  we  have  just  made 
the  reader  acquainted,  was  named  Vladimir  Niko- 
laitch  Piinshin.  He  served  in  Petersburg,  as  an 
official  for  special  commissions,  in  the  Ministry 
of  the  Interior.  He  had  come  to  the  town  of 
O  *  *  *  to  execute  a  temporary  governmental 
commission,  and  was  under  the  command  of 
Governor-General  Zonnenberg,  to  whom  he  was 
distantly  related.  Panshin's  father,  a  staff -cap- 
tain of  cavalry  on  the  retired  list,  a  famous  gam- 
bler, a  man  with  a  crumpled  visage  and  a  nervous 
twitching  of  the  lips,  liad  passed  his  whole  life 
in  the  society  of  people  of  quality,  had  frequented 
the  English  Clubs  in  both  capitals,  and  bore  the 
reputation  of  an  adroit,  not  verj''  trustworthy,  but 
charming  and  jolly  fellow.  In  spite  of  his  adroit- 
ness, he  found  himself  almost  constantly  on  the 
very  verge  of  indigence,  and  left  behind  him  to 
his  only  son  a  small  and  impaired  fortune.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  had,  after  his  own  fashion, 
taken  pains  with  his  education:  Vladimir  Niko- 
laitch  spoke  French  capitally,  English  well,  and 
German  badly;  but  it  is  permissible  to  let  fall  a 
German  word  in  certain  circumstances — chiefly 

17 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

huiiioious, — "c'est  meme  trh  chic"  as  the  Peters- 
burg Parisians  express  themselves.  "N^hidimir 
Nikoliiitch  ah-eady  iiiiderstood,  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen, how  to  enter  any  drawing-room  whatever 
witlioiit  embarrassment,  how  to  move  about  in  it 
agreeably,  and  to  withdraw  at  the  proper  time. 
Piinshin's  father  had  procured  for  his  son  many 
influential  connections;  as  he  shuffled  the  cards 
between  two  rubbers,  or  after  a  successful  capture 
of  all  the  tricks,  he  let  slip  no  opportunity  to  drop 
a  nice  little  word  about  his  "  Volodka  "  to  some 
important  personage  wlio  was  fond  of  social 
games.  On  his  side,  Vladimir  Xikolaitch,  during 
his  stay  in  the  university,  whence  he  emerged  with 
the  rank  of  actual  student,  made  acquaintance 
with  several  young  men  of  quality,  and  became 
a  frequenter  of  the  best  houses.  He  was  received 
gladly  everywhere;  he  was  extremely  good-look- 
ing, easy  in  his  manners,  entertaining,  always  well 
and  ready  for  everything;  where  it  was  requisite, 
lie  was  respectful;  where  it  was  possible,  he  was 
insolent,  a  capital  companion,  ////  charmant 
gar  foil.  The  sacred  realm  opened  out  before  him. 
Piinshin  speedily  grasped  the  secret  of  the  science 
of  society;  he  understood  how  to  imbue  himself 
with  genuine  respect  for  its  decrees;  he  under- 
stood how,  w^ith  half-bantering  gravity,  to  busy 
himself  with  nonsense  and  assume  the  appear- 
ance of  regarding  everything  serious  as  trivial; 
he  danced  exquisitely,  he  dressed  in  Knglish  style. 

18 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

In  a  short  time  he  became  renowned  as  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  and  adroit  young  men  in  Peters- 
bm'g.  Piinshin  was,  in  reahty,  very  adroit, — no 
less  so  than  his  father:  but  lie  was,  also,  very 
gifted.  He  could  do  everything :  he  sang  prettily, 
he  drew  dashingly,  he  wrote  verses,  he  acted  very 
far  from  badly  on  the  stage.  He  had  only  just 
passed  his  twenty-eighth  birthday,  but  he  was  al- 
ready Junior  Gentleman  of  the  Emperor's  bed- 
chamber, and  had  a  very  tolerable  rank.  Panshin 
firmly  believed  in  himself,  in  his  brains,  in  his 
penetration;  he  advanced  boldly  and  cheerfully, 
at  full  swing;  his  life  flowed  along  as  on  oil. 
He  was  accustomed  to  jilease  everybody,  old  and 
young,  and  imagined  that  he  was  a  judge  of  peo- 
ple, especially  of  women:  he  did  know  well  their 
everyday  weaknesses.  As  a  man  not  a  stranger 
to  art,  he  felt  within  him  both  fervour,  and  some 
enthusiasm,  and  rapture,  and  in  consequence  of 
this  he  permitted  himself  various  deviations  from 
the  rules:  he  caroused,  he  picked  up  acquaintance 
with  persons  who  did. not  belong  to  society,  and, 
in  general,  maintained  a  frank  and  simple  de- 
meanour; but  in  soul  he  was  cold  and  cunning,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  wildest  carouse  his  clever  little 
brown  eye  was  always  on  guard,  and  watching; 
this  bold,  this  free  young  man  could  never  for- 
get himself  and  get  completel)  carried  away.  To 
his  honour  it  must  be  said,  that  he  never  bragged 
of  his  conquests.    He  had  hit  upon  ^Marya  Dmi- 

19 


A   XOBT.EMAX'S  NEST 

trieviia's  liouse  iiiiiiiediatcly  on  his  arrival  in 
O  *  *  *,  and  liad  j)roniptly  made  himself  en- 
tirely at  iioino  tliere.  Marva  Dmitrievna  fairly 
adored  him. 

PaMshiii  amial)ly  saluted  all  >vho  were  in  the 
room,  shook  hands  witli  Mtirya  Dmitrieyna  and 
Lizaveta  Mikhailovna,  lightly  ta])ped  Gedeonoy- 
sky  on  the  shoulder,  and  whirling  round  on  his 
heels,  eaught  Lyenotehka  by  the  head,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  brow. 

"  xVnd  you  are  not  afraid  to  ride  sueh  a  yicious 
horse?" — ^larya  Dmitrievna  asked  him. 

"  Good  gracious!  it  is  a  very  peaceable  beast; 
but  I  11  tell  you  what  I  am  afraid  of:  I  'm  afraid 
to  play  preference  with  Sergyei  Petrovitch;  last 
night,  at  the  Byelenitzyns',  he  won  my  last 
farthing." 

Gedeonovsky  laughed  a  shrill  and  servile 
laugh :  he  fawned  on  the  brilliant  young  official 
from  Petersburg,  the  pet  of  the  governor.  In 
his  conversations  with  ]Marya  Dmitrievna,  he  fre- 
quently alluded  to  Panshin's  remarkable  capaci- 
ties. "  For  why  should  not  I  praise  him?  "  he  ar- 
gued. "  The  young  man  is  making  a  success  in 
the  highest  sphere  of  life,  discharges  his  service 
in  an  exemplary  manner,  and  is  not  the  least  bit 
proud."  INIoreover,  even  in  Petersburg  Panshin 
was  considered  an  energetic  official:  he  got 
through  an  immense  amount  of  work;  he  alluded 
to  it  jestingly,  as  is  befitting  a  fashionable  man 

20 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

who  attaches  no  particidar  importance  to  liis  la- 
bours, but  he  was  "  an  executor."  Tlie  hi^lier 
officials  love  such  subordinates;  he  never  had  the 
slightest  doubt  hinisell',  tliat,  if  he  so  wished,  lie 
could  become  a  INl inister  in  course  of  time. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  say  that  I  beat  you  at 
cards," — remarked  Gedeonovsky: — "  but  who 
was  it  that  won  twelve  rubles  from  me  last  week? 
and  besides  .  .  .  ." 

"  Villain,  villain,"  Panshin  interrupted  him, 
with  a  caressing  but  almost  disdainful  careless- 
ness, and  without  paying  any  further  attention  to 
him,  he  stepped  up  to  Liza. 

"  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  the  overture  of 
'  Oberon  '  here,"  he  began: — "  Mme.  Byelenit- 
zyn  was  merely  boasting,  that  she  had  all  the 
classical  music, — as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  has  no- 
thing except  polkas  and  waltzes;  but  I  have  al- 
ready written  to  JNIoscow,  and  within  a  week  I 
shall  have  that  overture.  By  the  way," — he  con- 
tinued,— "  I  wrote  a  new  romance  yesterday;  the 
words  also  are  my  own.  Would  you  like  to  have 
me  sinff  it  for  you?  I  do  not  know  how  it  has 
turned  out;  Mme.  Byelenitzyn  thought  it  ex- 
tremely charming,  but  her  words  signify  no- 
thing,— I  wish  to  know  your  opinion.  However, 
I  think  it  will  be  better  later  on " 

"Why  later  on?  "—interposed  Marya  Dmi- 
trievna: — "  Why  not  now?  " 

"  I  obey,  ma'am,"— said  Panshin,  with  a  cer- 

21 


A  XOHLKMAX'S  NEST 

tain  bright,  sweet  smile,  which  was  wont  to  appear 
on  liis  face,  and  suddenly  to  vanish, — pushed  for- 
ward a  chair  with  his  knee,  seated  himself  at  the 
piano,  and  after  striking  several  chords,  he  began 
to  sing,  clearly  enunciating  the  words,  the  follow- 
ing romance: 

The  moon  floats  high  above  the  earth 

Amid  tlic  clouds  so  pale; 
But  from  the  crest  of  the  sea  surge  moveth 

A  magic  ray. 
The  sea  of  my  soul  hath  acknowledged  thee 

To  be  its  moon, 
And  't  is  moved, — in  joy  and  in  sorrow, — 

By  thee  alone. 
With  the  anguish  of  love,  the  anguish  of  dumb  aspira- 
tions, 

The  soul  is  full ; 
I  suff'er  pain.   .   .     But  thou  from  agitation  art  as  free 

As  that  moon. 

Panshin  sang  the  second  couplet  with  peculiar 
expression  and  force;  the  surging  of  the  waves 
could  be  heard  in  the  tem])estuous  accompani- 
ment. After  the  words:  "  I  suffer  pain.  .  ."  he 
lieaved  a  slight  sigh,  dropped  his  eyes,  and  low- 
ered his  voice, — morendo.  When  he  had  finished, 
IJza  praised  the  motive,  ^Nlarya  Dmitrievna  said : 
"It  is  charming;" — while  Gedeonovsky  even 
shouted:  "Ravishing!  both  ])oetry  and  harmony 
are  equally  ravishing!  .   .   .   "'     Lyenotchka,  with 

22 


A  X()15LE]MAN'S  NP:ST 

childish  adoration,  gazed  at  the  singer.  In  a 
word,  the  com])osition  of  the  youthl'nl  (hlettante 
pleased  all  present  extremely;  but  outside  of  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room,  in  the  anteroom,  stfK)d 
an  elderly  man,  who  had  just  arrived,  to  wliom, 
judging  by  the  expression  of  his  downcast  face 
and  the  movement  of  his  shoulders,  Pansliin's  ro- 
mance, charming  as  it  was,  afforded  no  pleasure. 
After  waiting  a  wliile,  and  whisking  the  dust 
from  his  boots  with  a  coarse  handkerchief,  this 
man  suddenly  screwed  up  his  eyes,  pressed  his 
lips  together  grimly,  bent  his  back,  which  was  al- 
ready sufficiently  bowed  witliout  that,  and  slowly 
entered  the  drawing-room. 

"  Ah !  Christof or  Feodoritch,  g(K)d  after- 
noon !  "— Panshin  was  the  first  of  all  to  exclaim, 
and  sprang  hastily  from  his  seat. — "  I  had  no  sus- 
picion that  you  were  here, — I  could  not,  on  any 
account,  have  made  uj)  my  mind  to  sing  my  ro- 
mance in  your  presence.  I  know  that  you  do  not 
care  for  frivolous  music." 

"  I  vas  not  listening,"  remarked  the  new- 
comer, in  imperfect  Russian,  and  having  saluted 
all,  he  remained  awkwardly  standing  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room. 

"  Have  vou  come,  JNIonsieur  Lemm," — said 
Marya  Dmitrievna, — "  to  give  a  music  lesson  to 
Liza?  " 

"  No,  not  to  Lisafeta  Mikliailovna,  ])ut  to  Elena 
Mikhai'lovna." 

23 


A   NOHLKMAXS   XEST 

"Ah!  Well,— very  good.  Lyenotchka,  go 
ii]).stairs  with  Monsieur  lA^mni." 

Tlie  okl  man  was  on  the  point  of  following  the 
little  girl,  but  Piinshin  stopped  him. 

"  Do  not  "o  away  after  the  lesson,  Christofor 
Feodoritcli." — he  said: — "  I.izaveta  ^likhailovna 
and  I  will  ]il:iy  a  Ik'ethoven  sonata  for  four 
hands. 

The  old  man  muttered  something,  but  Panshin 
went  on  in  German,  pronouncing  his  words  badly: 

"  Lizaveta  Mikliailovna  lias  shown  me  the 
si)iritual  cantata  which  you  presented  to  her — 't  is 
a  very  fine  thing!  Please  do  not  think  that  I  am 
incai)able  of  a])preciating  serious  music, — quite 
tlie  contrary:  it  is  sometimes  tiresome,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  is  very  beneficial." 

The  old  man  crimsoned  to  his  very  ears,  cast  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Liza,  and  hastily  left  the 
room. 

Marya  Dmitrievna  requested  Panshin  to  re- 
peat the  romance;  but  he  declared,  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  wound  the  ears  of  the  learned  Ger- 
man, and  proposed  to  Liza  that  they  should  oc- 
cupy themselves  with  the  Beethoven  sonata. 
Then  Marya  Dmitrievna  sighed,  and  in  her  turn, 
proposed  to  Gedeonovsky  that  he  should  take  a 
stroll  in  the  garden  with  her. — "  I  wish," — she 
said,  "  to  talk  and  take  counsel  with  you  still  fur- 
tliei'.  over  our  poor  Fedya."  Gedeonovsky 
grinned,  bowed,  took  up — with  two  fingers,  his 

24 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

hat,  and  liis  gloves  neatly  laid  on  its  brim,  and 
withdrew,  in  com])any  with  ^Slarya  Dmitrievna. 
Panshin  and  I^iza  were  left  alone  in  the  room; 
she  fetched  the  sonata,  and  opened  it :  both  seated 
themselves,  in  silence,  at  the  piano. — From 
above,  the  faint  sonnds  of  scales,  played  by  T^ye- 
notchka's  nncertain  little  fingers,  were  wafted  to 
them. 


Oi 


25 


Christopher-Thkodore-Gottijeb  Lemm  was 
horn  in  the  year  1786,  in  the  kingdom  of  Sax- 
ony, in  tlie  town  of  Chemnitz,  of  poor  musicians. 
His  father  })hiye(l  the  French  horn,  his  mother  the 
harp:  lie  himself,  at  the  age  of  five,  was  already 
practising  on  three  different  instruments.  At 
eiglit  years  of  age  he  hecame  an  orphan,  and  at 
the  age  of  ten  he  hegan  to  earn  a  bit  of  bread  for 
Iiimself  by  his  art.  For  a  long  time  he  led  a  wan- 
dering life,  played  everywhere — in  inns,  at  fairs, 
and  at  peasant  weddings  and  at  balls;  at  last,  he 
got  into  an  orchestra,  and  rising  ever  higher  and 
higher,  he  attained  to  the  post  of  director.  He 
was  rather  a  ])oor  executant;  but  he  possessed  a 
tliorough  knowledge  of  music.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-eight  he  removed  to  Russia.  He  was  im- 
ported by  a  great  gentleman,  who  himself  could 
not  endure  music,  but  maintained  an  orchestra  as 
a  matter  of  pride.  liCmm  lived  seven  years  with 
him,  in  the  capacity  of  musical  conductor,  and 
left  him  with  empty  hands;  the  gentleman  was 
ruined,  and  wished  to  give  him  a  note  of  hand, 
but  afterward  refused  him  even  this, — in  a  word, 
(lid  not  j)ay  him  a  farthing.     Peo})Ie  advised  him 

26 


A  NOBI.KiMAX  S   XKST 

to  leave  the  country:  but  he  was  not  willing  to 
return  home  in  ])overty  from  Russia,  from  great 
Russia,  that  gold-mine  of  artists;  he  decided  to 
remain,  and  try  his  luck.  For  the  space  of  twenty 
years  he  did  try  his  luck:  he  sojourned  with  vari- 
ous gentry,  he  lived  in  JNIoscow  and  in  the  capitals 
of  various  governments,  he  suffered  and  endured 
a  great  deal,  he  learned  to  know  want,  he  floun- 
dered like  a  flsh  on  the  ice ;  but  the  idea  of  return- 
ing to  his  native  land  never  abandoned  him  in 
the  midst  of  all  these  calamities  to  which  he  was 
subjected;  it  alone  upheld  him.  But  it  did  not 
suit  Fate  to  render  him  happy  with  this  last  and 
first  joy:  at  the  age  of  fifty,  ill,  prematurely  in- 
firm, he  got  stranded  in  the  town  of  O  *  *  *  and 
there  remained  for  good,  having  finally  lost  all 
hope  of  quitting  the  Russia  which  he  detested, 
and  managing,  after  a  fashion,  to  support  his 
scanty  existence  by  giving  lessons.  Lemm's  ex- 
ternal appearance  did  not  predispose  one  in  his 
favour.  He  was  small  of  stature,  round-shoul- 
dered, with  shoulder-blades  which  projected 
crookedly,  and  a  hollow  chest,  with  huge,  flat 
feet,  with  pale-blue  nails  on  the  stiff",  unbend- 
ing fingers  of  his  sinewy,  red  hands;  he  had  a 
wrinkled  face,  sunken  cheeks,  and  tightly-com- 
pressed lips,  that  he  was  incessantly  moving  as 
though  chewing,  whicli,  added  to  his  customary 
taciturnity,  produced  an  almost  malevolent  im- 
pression; his  grey  hair  Imng  in  elf-locks  over  his 

27 


A   XOHLEMAX  S   XEST 

low  brow  ;  his  tiiiv,  motionless  eyes  smouldered 
like  eoals  whieh  had  just  been  extinguished;  he 
walked  hea\  ily,  swaying  his  clumsy  body  from 
side  to  side  at  every  step.  Some  of  his  move- 
ments were  suggestive  of  the  awkward  manner 
ill  which  an  owl  in  a  cage  plumes  itself  when  it 
is  conscious  that  it  is  l)cing  watched,  though  it 
itself  hardly  sees  anything  with  its  huge,  yellow, 
timorouslv  and  dozilv  blinking  eyes.  Confirmed, 
inexorable  grief  had  laid  upon  tlie  poor  musician 
its  ineffaceable  seal,  had  distorted  and  disfigured 
liis  already  ill-favoured  figure;  but  for  any  one 
who  knew  enough  not  to  stop  at  first  impres- 
sions, something  unusual  was  visible  in  this  half- 
wrecked  being.  A  worshipper  of  Bach  and 
Handel,  an  expert  in  his  profession,  gifted  with 
a  lively  imagination,  and  with  that  audacity  of 
thought  which  is  accessible  only  to  the  German 
race,  I^emm,  in  course  of  time — who  knows? — 
might  have  entered  the  ranks  of  the  great  com- 
])osers  ol'  his  native  land,  if  life  had  led  him 
differently;  but  he  had  not  been  born  under  a 
fortunate  star!  He  had  written  a  great  deal  in 
his  day — and  he  had  not  succeeded  in  seeing  a 
single  one  of  his  compositions  published;  he  had 
not  understood  how  to  set  about  the^iiatter  in 
the  proper  way,  to  cringe  opportunely,  to  bustle 
at  the  right  moment.  Once,  long,  long  ago,  one 
of  his  admirers  and  friends,  also  a  German  and 
also  ])oor,  had  published  two  of  his  sonatas  at 

28 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   NEST 

his  own  expense, — and  the  wliole  edition  re- 
mained in  the  cellars  of  the  musical  shops;  they 
had  vanished  dully,  without  lea\'ing  a  trace,  as 
though  some  one  had  flung  them  into  the  river 
by  night.  At  last  Lemm  gave  up  in  despair; 
moreover,  his  years  were  making  themselves  felt: 
he  had  begun  to  grow  rigid,  to  stiffen,  as  his 
fingers  stiffened  also.  Alone,  with  an  aged  cook, 
whom  he  had  taken  from  the  almshouse  (he  had 
never  been  married),  he  hved  on  in  ()  *  *  *, 
in  a  tiny  house,  not  far  from  the  Kalitin  residence; 
he  walked  a  great  deal,  read  the  Bible  and  col- 
lections of  Protestant  psalms,  and  Shakespeare 
in  Schlegel's  translation.  It  was  long  since  he 
had  composed  anything;  but,  evidently,  Liza,  his 
best  pupil,  understood  how  to  arouse  him:  he  had 
written  for  her  the  cantata  to  which  Ptinshin  had 
alluded.  He  had  taken  the  words  for  this  cantata 
from  the  psalms ;  several  verses  he  had  composed 
himself;  it  was  to  be  sung  by  two  choruses, — the 
chorus  of  the  happy,  and  the  chorus  of  the  un- 
happy; both  became  reconciled,  in  the  end,  and 
sang  together:  "O  merciful  God,  have  mercy 
upon  us  sinners,  and  purge  out  of  us  by  fire  all 
evil  thoughts  and  earthly  hopes!  "—On  the  title- 
page,  ve^  carefully  written,  and  even  drawn, 
stood  the  following:  "  Oidy  the  Just  are  Right. 
A  Spiritual  Cantata.  Com.posed  and  dedicated 
to  Miss  Elizaveta  Kalitin,  my  beloved  inipil,  by 
her   teacher,    C.    T.    G.    Lemm."      Lhe    words: 

20 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NP^ST 

"  Only  the  Just  are  Right,"  and  "  Elizaveta 
Kah'tin,  "  were  surrounded  hy  rays.  Below  was 
added:  "For  you  alone," — "Fur  Sie  allein." — 
Therefore  Lemni  liad  crimsoned  and  had  cast 
a  sidelong  glance  at  Liza;  it  pained  him  greatly 
when  Panshin  spoke  of  his  cantata  in  his  presence. 


30 


f 


VI 

Panshin  struck  the  opening  chords  of  the  sonata 
loudly,  and  with  decision  (he  was  playing  the 
second  hand),  but  Liza  did  not  begin  her  part. 
He  stopped,  and  looked  at  her.  Liza's  eyes, 
fixed  straight  upon  him,  expressed  displeasure; 
her  lips  were  not  smiling,  her  whole  face  was 
stern,  almost  sad. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "—he  inquired. 

"  Why  did  not  you  keep  your  word?  "  said  she. 
— "  I  showed  you  Christofor  Fe6doritch\s  cantata 
on  condition  that  you  would  not  mention  it  to 
him." 

"  Pardon  me,  Lizaveta  JNIikhailovna,  it  was  a 
slip  of  the  tongue." 

"  You  have  wounded  him — and  me  also.  Now 
he  will  not  trust  me  any  more." 

"  What  would  you  ha\'e  me  do,  Lizaveta  JVIi- 
khailovna!  From  mj^  earliest  childhood,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  a  German: 
something  simply  impels  me  to  stir  him  up." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Vladimir  Xikolaitch! 
This  German  is  a  poor,  solitary,  broken  man — 
and  you  feel  no  pity  for  him?  You  want  to  stir 
him  up?  " 

31 


A  XOliLK.MAX  S   NEST 

Paiisliin  \vas  disconcerted. 

■'  You  are  right,  Lizaveta  ^Nlikhailovna," — he 
said.  '*  My  eternal  thoughtlessness  is  responsible 
for  Ihf  wliole  thing.  No,  do  not  say  a  word;  I 
know  inyscir  well.  My  thoughtlessness  has  done 
me  many  an  ill  turn.  Thanks  to  it,  I  have  won 
the  reputation  of  an  egoist." 

Pjinsliin  [)aused  for  a  moment.  Xo  matter  how 
lie  began  a  conversation,  he  habitually  wound  up 
by  speaking  of  himself,  and  he  did  it  in  a  charm- 
ing, soft,  confidential,  almost  involuntary  wav. 

"  And  here  in  vour  house," — he  went  on: — 
"  your  mother  likes  me,  of  course, — she  is  so  kind; 
you  .  .  .  however,  I  do  not  know  your  opinion 
of  me;  l)ut  your  aimt,  on  the  contrary,  cannot 
bear  me.  I  must  have  offended  her,  also,  by  some 
thouglitless,  stujjid  remark.  For  she  does  not 
like  me,  does  she?  " 

"  No,"  said  Liza,  with  some  hesitation: — "  j^ou 
do  not  please  her." 

Panshin  swept  his  fingers  swiftly  over  the 
keys;  a  barely  perceptible  smile  flitted  across  his 
lips. 

"Well,  and  you?"^ — he  said: — "Do  I  seem 
an  egoist  to  you  also?  " 

"  I  know  you  very  slightly," — returned  Liza: 
— "  but  I  do  not  consider  you  an  egoist;  on  the 
contrary,  I  ought  to  feel  grateful  to  you.   ..." 

"  I  know.  I  know,  what  you  mean  to  say," — 
Pansliin  interru])ted  her,  and  again  ran  his  fin- 

32 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

gers  over  the  keys: — "  for  the  iiiusic,  for  tlie  books 
which  1  ])ring  you,  for  the  ])a(l  (h-awiiio-s  witli 
which  1  decorate  your  album,  and  so  forth  and  so 
on.  1  can  do  all  that — and  still  be  an  egoist.  J 
venture  to  think,  that  you  are  not  bored  in  my 
company,  and  that  you  do  not  regard  me  as  a 
bad  man,  but  still  you  assume,  that  I — how  in 
the  world  shall  I  express  it? — would  not  spare  my 
own  father  or  friend  for  the  sake  of  a  jest." 

"  You  are  heedless  and  forgetful,  like  all 
worldly  j^eople," — said  Eiza: — "that  is  all." 

Panshin  frowned  slightly.  ' 

"  Listen,"  he  said: — "  let  us  not  talk  any  more 
about  me ;  let  us  play  our  sonata.  One  thing  only 
I  will  ask  of  you," — he  said,  as  with  his  hand  he 
smoothed  out  the  leaves  of  the  bound  volume 
which  stood  on  the  music-rack: — "  think  what  you 
will  of  me,  call  me  an  egoist  even, — so  be  it!  but 
do  not  call  me  a  worldly  man:  that  appellation  is 
intolerable  to  me.  .  .  .  AncJiio  son  inttore.  I 
also  am  an  artist, — and  I  will  immediately  prove 
it  to  you  in  action.    Let  us  begin." 

"  We  will  begin,  if  you  please," — said  liiza. 

The  first  adagio  went  quite  successfully,  al- 
though Panshin  rnade  more  than  one  mistake. 
He  played  his  own  com])ositions  and  those  whicli 
he  had  practised  very  ])rettily,  but  he  read  music 
badly.  On  the  other  hand,  the  second  part  of  the 
sonata — a  rather  brisk  allegro — did  not  go  at  all : 
at  the  twentieth  measure,  Panshin,  who  had  got 

33 


A  XOHLKMAN'S  NEST 

two  iiRasurcs  behind,  could  hold  out  no  longer, 
and  })iishL'd  back  his  chair  with  a  laugh. 

"No!" — he  exclaimed: — "I  cannot  pla}^  to- 
day; it  is  well  that  Lenmi  does  not  hear  us:  he 
would  fall  down  in  a  swoon." 

Liza  rose,  shut  the  piano,  and  turned  to 
Pcinshin. 

"  AVhat  shall  we  do  now?  " — she  asked. 

"  I  recognise  you  in  that  question!  You  can- 
not possil)ly  sit  with  folded  hands.  Come,  if  you 
like,  let  us  draw,  before  it  has  gro^Mi  completely 
dark.  Perha])s  the  other  muse, — the  muse  of 
drawing  ....  what 's  her  name?  I  've  forgot- 
ten ....  will  be  more  gracious  to  me.  AVhere 
is  your  album?  Do  you  remember? — my  land- 
scape there  is  not  finished." 

I^iza  went  into  the  next  room  for  her  album, 
and  Piinshin,  when  he  was  left  alone,  pulled  a 
batiste  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  polished  his 
nails,  and  gazed  somewhat  askance  at  his  hands. 
Thev  were  very  handsome  and  white;  on  the 
thumb  of  the  left  hand  he  wore  a  sj^iral  gold 
ring.  Liza  returned ;  Panshin  seated  himself  near 
the  window,  and  opened  the  album. 

"Aha!  " — he  exclaimed: — "I  see  that  you  have 
beguii  to  copy  my  landscape — and  that  is  fine. 
Very  good!  Only  here— give  me  a  pencil — the 
shadows  are  not  put  on  thickly  enougli.  .  .  . 
Look." 

And  Pansliin,  with  a  bold  sweep,  prolonged 

34 


A  NOm.KMAN'S  NKST 

several  long  strokes.  He  eonstaiitly  drew  one 
and  the  same  landseape:  in  the  foreground  were 
large,  dishevelled  trees,  in  the  distanee,  a  meadow, 
and  saw-toothed  mountains  on  the  horizon.  Liza 
looked  over  his  shoulder  at  his  work. 

"  In  drawing,  and  in  life  in  general," — said 
Piinshin,  hending  his  head  now  to  the  right,  now 
to  the  left: — "lightness  and  boldness  are  the 
principal  thing." 

At  that  moment,  Lemm  entered  the  room,  and, 
with  a  curt  inclination,  was  on  the  point  of  de- 
parting; but  Panshin  flung  aside  the  album  and 
pencil,  and  barred  his  way. 

"  Whither  are  you  going,  my  dear  Christofor 
Feodoritch  ?  Are  not  you  going  to  stay  and  drink 
tea?  " 

"  I  must  go  home," — said  Lemm  in  a  surly 
voice: — "  my  head  aches." 

"  Come,  what  nonsense! — stay.  You  and  I 
will  have  a  dispute  over  Shakespeare." 

"  My  head  aches," — repeated  the  old  man. 

"  We  tried  to  play  a  Beethoven  sonata  without 
you," — went  on  Panshin,  amiably  encircling  liis 
waist  with  his  arm,  and  smiling  brightly: — 
"  but  we  could  n't  make  it  go  at  all.  Just  ima- 
gine, I  could  n't  play  two  notes  in  succession 
correctly." 

"  You  vould  haf  done  better  to  sing  your  ro- 
mantz," — retorted  Ijcmm,  ])ushing  aside  Pan- 
shin's  arm,  and  left  the  room. 

35 


A  XOBLEMAX  S  XEST 

Liza  ran  after  liiin.  She  overtook  liini  on  the 
steps. 

■  C'hiistofor  Feodoritch,  listen,"—  she  said  to 
him  in  Ciernian,  as  she  accompanied  him  to  the 
gate,  across  tlie  close-cropped  green  grass  of  the 
yard: — "  1  am  to  hlame  toward  you — forgive 
me. 

Lemm  made  no  reply. 

"  I  showed  your  cantata  to  Vladimir  Niko- 
laitch;  I  was  convinced  that  he  would  appreciate 
it, — and  it  really  did  please  him  greatly." 

Lemm  halted. 

"  Zat  is  nozing,"^ — he  said  in  Russian,  and 
then  added  in  liis  native  tongue: — "  but  he  can- 
not understand  anything;  how  is  it  that  you  do 
not  perceive  that? — he  is  a  dilettante — and  that  's 
all  there  is  to  it !  " 

"  You  are  unjust  to  him," — returned  Liza: — 
"  he  understands  everything,  and  can  do  nearly 
everything  himself." 

"  Yes,  everything  is  second-class,  light-weight, 
hasty  work.  That  pleases,  and  he  pleases,  and 
he  is  content  with  that — well,  and  bravo!  But  I 
am  not  angry;  that  cantata  and  I — we  are  old 
fools;  I  am  somewhat  asliamed,  but  that  does  not 
matter." 

"  Forgive  me,  Christofor  Feodoritch," — said 
Liza  again. 

"  It  does  not  mattair,  it  does  not  mattair,"  he 
repeated   again    in   Russian: — "you  are   a   goot 

80 


A  NOBT.EMAX'S  XKST 

girl  .  .  .  but  see  yonder,  some  vuii  is  eoming  to 
your  house.  Good-bye.  You  are  ji  fery  goot 
gu-1. 

And  Lemrn,  witli  liasty  strides,  betook  himself 
toward  the  gate,  througli  ^^•hich  was  entering  a 
gentleman  witli  whom  lie  was  not  aecjuainted, 
clad  in  a  grey  coat  and  a  broad-brimmed  straw 
hat.  Courteously  saluting  him  (he  bowed  to  all 
newcomers  in  the  town  of  O  *  *  *  ;  he  turned 
away  from  his  ac(juaintances  on  the  street — that 
was  the  rule  which  he  had  laid  down  for  himself) , 
Lemm  passed  him,  and  disappeared  behind  the 
hedffe.  The  stranger  looked  after  him  in  amaze- 
ment,  and,  exchanging  a  glance  with  Liza,  ad- 
vanced straight  toward  her. 


37 


VII 

"  You  do  not  recognise  me," — he  said,  removing 
Ills  hat, — "  hut  1  recognise  you,  although  eight 
yeais  have  passed  since  I  saw  you  last.  You  were 
a  child  then.  I  am  Lavretzkv.  Is  your  mother 
at  liome!'    Can  I  see  her?  " 

"  ]\Ianima  will  be  very  glad," — replied  Liza: — 
"  she  lias  heard  of  your  arrival." 

"Your  name  is  Elizaveta,  I  believe?" — said 
Lavretzky,  as  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the  porch, 
les. 

"  I  remember  you  well ;  you  had  a  face,  at  that 
time,  such  as  one  does  not  forget ;  I  used  to  bring 
you  bonbons  then." 

Liza  blushed  and  thought,  "  What  a  strange 
man  he  is!  "  Lavretzky  i:)aused  for  a  minute  in 
the  anteroom.  Liza  entered  the  drawing-room, 
where  Panshins  voice  and  laughter  were  re- 
sounding; he  had  imparted  some  gossip  of  the 
town  to  Marya  Dmitrievna  and  Gedeonovsky, 
who  had  already  returned  from  the  garden,  and 
was  himself  laughing  loudly  at  what  he  had  nar- 
rated. At  the  name  of  Lavretzkv,  INIarva  Dmi- 
trievna  started  in  utter  trepidation,  turned  pale, 
and  advanced  to  meet  him. 

38 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  How  do  3^ou  do,  1k)\\'  do  you  do,  my  dear 
cousin! " — she  exclaimed,  in  a  drawling  and  al- 
most tearful  voice : — "  how  glad  1  am  to  see  you !  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  kind  cousin," — returned 
Lavretzky;  and  shook  her  proffered  hand  in  a 
friendly  way: — "  how  does  the  Lord  sho\v  mercy 
on  you?  " 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  dear  Feodor  Ivanitch. 
Akh,  how  deliglited  1  am !  Permit  me,  in  tlie  first 
place,  to  present  to  you  my  daughter  Liza.  .  .  " 

"  I  have  already  introduced  myself  to  Lizaveta 
Mikhailovna," — Lavretzky  interrupted  her. 

"  Monsieur  Panshin  ....  Sergyei  Petro- 
vitch  Gedeonovsky  ....  But  pray  sit  down!  I 
look  at  you,  and  I  simply  cannot  hclieve  my  eyes. 
How  is  your  health?  " 

"  As  you  see,  I  am  blooming.  And  you, 
cousin, — I  don't  want  to  cast  the  evil  eye  on  you 
— you  have  not  grown  thin  during  these  eight 
years." 

"  Just  think,  what  a  long  time  it  is  since  we 
saw  each  other," — remarked  ^Nlarya  Dmitrievna, 
dreamily. — "  Whence  come  you  now?  Where 
have  you  left  ....  that  is,  I  meant  to  say  " — she 
hastily  caught  herself  up — "  1  meant  to  say,  are 
you  to  be  with  us  long?  " 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Berlin," — returned 
Lavretzky,—"  and  to-morrow  I  set  out  for  my 
estate — probably  to  lemain  there  a  long  time." 

"  Of  course,  y»)u  will  live  at  Tjavriki?  " 

39 


A   XOBT.KMAX'S  NEST 

■  No,  not  at  Lavn'ki,  l)iit  1  have  a  tiny  village 
about  twenty-five  versts  from  here;  I  am  going- 
there. ' 

•"  The  village  u  liieh  yon  inherited  I'roni  Glafira 

IVtrovna?  " 
1  lie  same. 

"  Good  graeious,  Feodor  Ivanitch!  Vou  have 
a  splendid  house  at  I^avriki!  " 

Laxret/.ky  scowled  slightly. 

"  Yes  ....  hut  in  that  little  estate  there  is  a 
.small  wing:  and,  for  the  present,  I  need  nothing 
more.  That  place  is  the  most  convenient  for 
me  just  now." 

^Slarya  Dmitrievna  again  became  so  perturbed, 
that  she  even  straightened  herself  up,  and  fiung 
her  hands  apart.  Panshin  came  to  her  assistance, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  Lavretzky. 
iSIarya  Dmitrievna  recovered  her  composure, 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  only  interjected  a 
word  from  time  to  time;  but,  all  the  while,  she 
gazed  so  compassionately  at  her  visitor,  she  sighed 
so  sionificantlv,  and  shook  her  head  so  mourn- 
fully,  that  the  latter,  at  last,  could  endure  it  no 
longer,  and  asked  her,  quite  sharply:  was  she 
well? 

"Thank  God,  yes,"— replied  INIarya  Dmi- 
trievna,— "  why? " 

"  Because  it  seemed  to  me  that  you  were  not 
quite  yourself." 

Marya  Dmitrievna  assumed  a  dignified  and 

40 


A  NOHLKAFAN'S   NKST 

somewhat  off'ciuled  aspect. — ^"  If  tliat  's  the  way 
you  take  it," — she  said  to  lierself, — "  1  don't  care 
in  the  least;  evidently,  my  good  man,  nothing  af- 
fects thee  any  more  than  water  does  a  goose;  any 
one  else  would  have  pined  away  with  gi'ief,  hut 
it  swells  thee  up  more  tlian  ever."  ]Marya  l)n)i- 
trievna  did  not  stand  on  ceremony  with  herself; 
she  expressed  herself  more  elegantly  aloud. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lavretzky  did  not  resemhle 
a  victim  of  fate.  His  rosy-cheeked,  purely-Kus- 
sian  face,  with  its  large,  w^hite  hrow,  rather  thick 
nose,  and  hroad,  regular  lijjs,  fairly  overflowed 
with  native  health,  with  strong,  durahle  force. 
He  was  Qiagnificently  huilt, — and  his  hlond  hair 
curled  all  over  his  head,  like  a  young  man's.  Only 
in  his  eyes,  which  were  blue  and  prominent  and 
fixed,  was  there  to  be  discerned  something  which 
was  not  re\  ery,  nor  yet  weariness,  and  his  voice 
sounded  rather  too  even. 

In  the  meantime,  Panshin  had  continued  to 
keep  up  the  conversation.  He  turned  it  on  the 
profits  of  sugar-refining,  concerning  which  two 
French  pamphlets  had  recently  made  tlieir  a])- 
pearance,  and  with  calm  modesty  undertook  to 
set  forth  their  contents,  but  without  saying  one 
word  about  them. 

"Why,  here's  Fedya!"  suddenly  rang  out 
Marfa  Timofeevna's  voice  in  the  adjoining  room, 
behind  the  half-closed  door: — "  Actually.  Fe- 
dj^a!"    And  the  old  woman  briskly  entered  the 

41 


A  XOBLKMAN  S  NKST 

room.  15efore  Lavretzky  could  rise  from  his 
c'liair,  she  dasped  him  in  her  embrace. — "  Come, 
sho\\  thyself,  show  thyself," — she  said,  moving 
back  from  his  face. — "  Eh!  What  a  splendid  fel- 
low thou  art!  Thou  hast  grown  older,  but  hast 
not  grown  in  the  least  less  comely,  really!  But 
w  liy  art  thou  kissing  my  hands, — kiss  me  myself, 
if  my  ^MMnkled  cheeks  are  not  repulsive  to  thee. 
Can  it  be,  that  thou  didst  not  ask  after  me:  '  Well, 
tell  me,  is  aunty  alive?'  \Vhy,  thou  wert  born 
into  my  arms,  thou  rogue!  Well,  never  mind 
that;  why  shouldst  tliou  have  remembered  me? 
Only,  thou  art  a  sensil)le  fellow,  to  have  come. 
W^'ll,  my  mother," — she  added,  addressing  Ma- 
rya  Dmitrievna, — "  hast  thou  given  him  any  re- 
freshments? " 

"  I  want  nothing," — said  Lavretzky,  hastily. 

"  Come,  drink  some  tea,  at  least,  my  dear  little 
father.  O  Lord  my  God!  He  has  come,  no 
one  knows  whence,  and  they  don't  give  him  a  cup 
of  tea !  Go,  Liza,  and  see  about  it,  as  quickly  as 
possible.  I  remember  that,  as  a  little  fellow,  he 
was  a  dreadful  glutton,  and  he  must  be  fond  of 
eating  even  now." 

"  iSIy  respects,  Marfa  Timofeevna,"— said 
Panshin,  approaching  the  angry  old  woman  from 
one  side,  and  bowing  low. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir," — retorted  jNIarfa  Timo- 
feevna,— "  I  did  not  notice  you  for  joy. — Thou 
liast  grown  to  resemble  thy  mother,  the  darling," 

42 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

— she  went  on,  turning  again  to  Lavrelzky: — 
"  only,  thy  nose  was  and  remains  hkc  thy  fa- 
ther's.   Well — and  art  thou  to  he  long  with  us^  " 

"  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,  aunty." 

"Whither?" 

"  Home,  to  Vasilievskoe." 

"  To-morrow?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  if  it  must  be  to-morrow,  it  must.  God 
be  with  thee, — thou  knowest  best.  Only,  see  here, 
thou  must  come  to  say  farewell." — The  old 
woman  tapped  him  on  the  cheek. — "  I  did  not 
think  I  should  live  to  see  thee;  and  that  not  be- 
cause I  was  preparing  to  die ;  no — I  am  good  for 
another  ten  years,  probably:  all  we  Pestoffs  are 
tenacious  of  life;  thy  deceased  grandfather  used 
to  call  us  double-lived;  but  the  Lord  only  knew 
how  much  longer  thou  woiddst  ramble  about 
abroad.  Well,  but  thou  art  a  dashing  fine  fel- 
low, a  fine  fellow;  thou  canst  still  lift  ten  puds 
in  one  hand  as  of  yore,  I  suppose  ?  Thy  deceased 
father,  excuse  me,  was  cranky  in  some  respects, 
but  he  did  well  when  he  hired  a  Swiss  for  thee; 
thou  rememberest,  how  thou  and  he  had  fist- 
fights;  that's  called  gymnastics,  isn't  it? — But 
why  have  I  been  cackling  thus  ?  I  have  only  been 
keeping  Mr.  Panshin  "  (she  never  called  him 
Panshin,  as  she  ought)  "  from  arguing.  But  we 
had  better  drink  tea;  let  us  go  and  drink  it  on  the 
terrace,  my  dear ;  our  cream — is  not  like  what  you 

43 


A  XOBT.EMAX  S  XEST 

get  ill  your  LoikIdiis  and  Parises.  Let  us  go,  let 
us  go,  and  do  thou,  Fediusha,  give  me  thy  arm. 
()!  how  thick  it  is!  There  's  no  danger  of  falling 
with  tliee." 

.Vll  rose  and  betook  themselves  to  the  terrace, 
with  tlie  exception  of  Gedeonovsky,  who  quietly 
departed.  During  the  entire  duration  of  La- 
vretzky's  coinersation  with  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  Piinshin,  and  ^larfa  Timofeevna,  he  had 
sat  in  a  corner,  attentively  blinking,  and  sticking 
out  his  lips,  in  childish  curiosity:  he  now  hastened 
to  carry  the  news  about  the  new  visitor  through- 
out tlie  town. 

On  that  same  day,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, this  is  what  was  going  on  at  jNIme.  Kalitin's 
liouse.  Down-stairs,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room, Vladimir  Xikolaitch, having  seized 
a  favourable  moment,  was  saying  farew^ell  to 
Liza,  and  telling  her,  as  he  held  lier  hand:  "  You 
know  w^ho  it  is  that  attracts  me  hither ;  you  know 
^^•hy  I  am  incessantly  coming  to  your  house ;  what 
is  the  use  of  words,  when  everything  is  so  plain?  " 
Liza  made  him  no  reply,  and  without  a  smile,  and 
witli  eyebrows  slightly  elevated,  and  blusliing,  she 
stared  at  the  floor,  but  did  not  withdraw  her 
hand;  and  up-stairs,  in  Marfa  Timofeevna's 
chamber,  b}^  the  light  of  the  shrine-lamp,  which 
hung  in  front  of  the  dim,  ancient  lioly  pictures, 
Lavretzky  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his 

44 


A  NOBLKMAN'S  NKST 

elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his  face  in  his  hands;  the 
old  woman,  standing  before  him,  was  silently 
stroking  his  liair,  from  time  to  time.  Tie  spent 
more  than  an  honr  with  lier,  after  taking  leave 
of  tlie  mistress  of  the  honse;  he  said  almost 
nothing  to  his  kind  old  friend,  and  she  did  not 
interrogate  him.  .  .  And  what  was  tlie  nse  of 
talking,  what  was  there  to  interrogate  him  alxMit? 
She  nnderstood  everything  as  it  was,  and  she 
sym])athised  with  everything  wherewith  his  heart 
was  full  to  overflowing. 


45 


VIII 

Fkodou  Ivanovitch  T^avretzky  (we  must  ask 
tlie  reader's  permission  to  break  the  thread  of  our 
nai-rative  I'or  a  time)  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient family  of  the  nobihty.  The  ancestral  foun- 
der  of  tlie  Layretzkys  had  come  out  of  Prussia 
(hning  tlie  j^rinccly  reign  of  Vasily  the  Bhnd, 
and  had  been  granted  two  hundred  quarters^  of 
land,  on  l^yezhetsk  Heights.  Many  of  his  de- 
scendants were  members  of  yarious  branches  of 
the  j3ublic  seryice,  and  sat  under  princes  and  (Hs- 
tinguishcd  personages  in  distant  goyernorships, 
but  not  one  of  them  eyer  rose  aboye  the  rank  of 
table-decker  at  the  Court  of  the  Tzars,  or  ac- 
(juired  any  considerable  fortune.  The  most  opu- 
lent and  noteworthy  of  all  the  I^ayretzkys  had 
been  P^eodor  lyanitch's  great-grandfather,  An- 
drei, a  harsh,  insolent,  cleyer,  and  crafty  man. 
Down  to  the  day  of  which  ^^e  are  speaking,  the 
fame  of  his  arbitrary  yiolence,  of  his  fiendish  dis- 
})osition,  his  mad  layishness,  and  unquenchable 
thirst  had  not  died  out.  He  had  been  ver}^  stout 
and    lofty   of   stature,    swarthy    of   yisage,    and 

'  An    ancient    laiul-nicasiire,    varying   in    different    localities;    the 
average  "quarter"  being  aLjout  thirty   by   forty   fathoms. — Tuans- 

LATOtt. 

^6 


A  XOULKMAN  S   XKST 

beardless;  lie  lisped,  and  a[)peared  to  be  sleepy; 
but  the  more  soi'tly  he  spoke,  the  more  did  rwvv 
one  around  him  tremble.  lie  obtained  I'oi-  him- 
self a  wife  to  mateh.  (i()i><iile-eyed,  with  hawk- 
like nose,  with  a  round,  sallow  faee,  a  ^ipsy  h\ 
birth,  (|uiek-tempered  and  revengeful,  she  was  not 
a  whit  behind  her  husband,  who  almost  starved 
her  to  death,  and  whom  she  did  not  survive,  al- 
though she  was  eternally  snarling  at  him. 

Andrei's  son,  I'iotr,  Feodor's  grandfather,  did 
not  resemble  his  father:  he  was  a  simple  squire  of 
the  steppes,  deeidedly  hare-brained,  a  swash- 
buckler and  dawdler,  rough  but  not  malieious, 
hospitable,  and  fond  of  dogs.  He  was  more  than 
thirty  years  old  when  he  inherited  from  his  fa- 
ther two  thousand  souls  in  capital  order;  but  lie 
speedily  dispersed  them,  sold  a  part  of  his  es- 
tate, and  spoiled  his  house-servants.  Petty  little 
people,  acquaintances  and  non-acquaintances, 
crawled  from  all  sides,  like  black-beetles,  to  his 
spacious,  warm,  and  slovenly  mansion;  all  these 
ate  whatever  came  to  hand,  but  ate  their  fill, 
drank  themselves  drunk,  and  carried  off  what 
they  could,  lauding  and  magnifying  the  amiable 
host;  and  the  host,  when  he  was  not  in  a  good 
humour,  also  magnified  his  guests — as  drones  and 
blackguards — but  he  was  bored  witlu^it  them. 
Piotr  Andreitch's  wife  was  a  meek  person:  he 
took  her  from  a  neighbouring  family,  at  his  fa- 
ther's choice  and  command;  her  name  was  ^Viina 

4-7 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Pavlovim.  She  never  interfered  with  anything, 
received  visitors  cordially,  and  was  fond  of  going 
out  herself,  although  powdering  her  hair,  accord- 
ing to  her  o\\  II  words,  was  death  to  her.  They  put 
a  felt  liood  on  your  head,  she  was  wont  to  narrate 
in  her  old  age,  combed  your  hair  all  up  on  top, 
smeared  it  with  tallow,  sprinkled  on  flour,  stuck 
in  iron  i)ins, — and  vou  could  not  wash  yourself 
afterward ;  but  to  go  visiting  without  powder  was 
impossible — people  would  take  offence; — tor- 
ture ! — She  was  fond  of  driving  after  trotters,  was 
ready  to  play  cards  from  morning  until  night, 
and  always  covered  up  with  her  hand  the  few 
farthings  of  winnings  set  down  to  her  when  her 
husl)an(l  approached  the  card-table;  but  she  gave 
her  dowry  and  all  her  money  to  him,  and  required 
no  accounting  for  its  use.  Slie  bore  him  two 
children:  a  son,  Ivan,  Feodor's  father,  and  a 
daughter,  Glafira. 

Ivan  was  not  brought  up  at  home,  but  at  the 
house  of  a  wealthy  old  aunt,  Princess  Kuben- 
skoy;  she  had  designated  him  as  her  heir  (had 
it  not  been  for  that,  his  father  would  not  have 
let  him  go)  ;  she  dressed  him  like  a  doll,  hired 
every  sort  of  teacher  for  him,  provided  him  with 
a  governor,  a  Frenchman,  a  former  abbe,  a  disci- 
ple of  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  a  certain  M. 
Courtin  de  Vaucelles,  an  adroit  and  subtle  in- 
triguer,— the  most  fine  flcur  of  the  emigration, 
as  she  expressed  it, — and  ended  by  marrying  this 

48 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  fine-fleur  "  when  she  was  ahiiost  seventy  years 
of  age;  she  transferred  to  his  name  her  entire  for- 
tune, and  soon  afterward,  rouged,  seented  witii 
amher,  a  la  liiclicUcu,  surrounded  by  small  ne- 
groes, slender-legged  dogs,  and  sereeehing  par- 
rots, she  died  on  a. crooked  little  couch  of  the  time 
of  Louis  XV,  with  an  enamelled  snuff-box,  the 
work  of  Petitot,  in  her  hands, — and  died,  deserted 
by  her  husband:  the  sneaking  M.  Courtin  had 
preferred  to  retire  to  Paris  with  her  money. 

Ivan  was  only  in  his  twentieth  year  when  this 
blow  (we  are  speaking  of  the  Princess's  marriage, 
not  of  her  death)  descended  upon  him;  he  did  not 
wish  to  remain  in  his  aunt's  house,  where  from  a 
wealthy  heir  he  had  suddenly  been  converted  into 
a  parasite;  in  Petersburg,  the  society  in  which  he 
had  been  reared,  was  closed  to  him;  to  service,  be- 
ginning with  the  lowest  ranks,  difficult  and  dark, 
he  felt  repugnance  (all  this  took  place  at  the 
very  beginning  of  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Alexander).  He  was  compelled,  perforce,  to 
return  to  the  country,  to  his  father.  Dirty,  poor, 
tattered  did  his  native  nest  appear  to  him:  the 
dulness  and  soot  of  existence  on  the  steppes  of- 
fended him  at  every  step ;  he  was  tormented  with 
boredom;  on  the  other  hand,  every  one  in  the 
house,  with  the  exception  of  his  mother,  looked 
upon  him  with  unfriendly  eyes.  His  father  did  not 
like  his  habits  of  the  capital ;  his  dress-suits,  frilled 
shirts,  books,  his  flute,  his  cleanliness,  in  which, 

49 


A  XOBLKMAX  S  XEST 

not  without  reason,  they  scented  his  fastidious- 
ness; he  was  constantly  coniphiining  and  gnini- 
])hng  at  his  son. — "  Nothing  here  suits  him,"  lie 
was  wont  to  sav:  "  at  table  he  is  dainty,  he  does 
not  eat,  he  cannot  endure  the  odour  of  the  ser- 
vants, the  stitling-  atmosphere;  the  sight  of 
drunken  men  disturbs  him,  and  you  must  n't  dare 
to  tight  in  his  presence,  either;  he  will  not  enter 
government  service:  he's  frail  in  health,  for- 
sooth; jjhew,  what  an  effeminate  creature!  And 
all  because  Voltaire  sticks  in  his  head!  " 

The  old  man  cherished  a  particular  dislike  for 
Voltaire,  and  for  the  "  fanatic "  Diderot,  al- 
though he  had  never  read  a  single  line  of  their 
writings:  I'eading  was  not  in  his  line.  Piotr  An- 
dreitch  Mas  not  mistaken:  Diderot  and  A'^oltaire 
really  were  sticking  in  his  son's  head,  and  not  they 
only, — but  Rousseau  and  Raynal  and  Helvetius, 
and  many  other  writers  of  the  same  sort,  were 
sticking  in  his  head, — but  only  in  his  head.  Ivan 
Petrovitch's  former  tutor,  the  retired  abbe  and 
encyclopedist,  had  contented  himself  with  pour- 
ing the  whole  philosophy  of  the  XVIII  century 
into  his  pu])il  in  a  mass,  and  the  latter  went  about 
))rimful  of  it;  it  gained  lodgment  within  him, 
without  mingling  with  his  blood,  without  penetra- 
ting into  his  soul,  without  making  itself  felt  as  a 
firm  conviction.  .  .  And  could  convictions  be  de- 
manded of  a  young  fellow  of  fifty  years  ago, 
when  we  have  not  even  yet  grown  up  to  them? 

50 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

He  also  embarrassed  tlie  visitors  to  his  fallKi's 
house:  he  loathed  tlieni,  and  tliey  feared  him;  and 
with  his  sister,  Cxlafira,  who  was  twelve  years 
older  than  he,  he  did  not  get  on  at  all. 

This  Crlafira  was  a  strange  being;  homely, 
hunehbaeked,  gaunt,  with  stern,  staring  eyes  and 
thin,  tightly  compressed  lips;  in  face,  voice,  and 
quick,  angular  movements,  she  recalled  her  grand- 
mother, the  gipsy,  the  wife  of  Andrei.  Per- 
sistent, fond  of  power,  she  would  not  even  hear 
of  marriage.  Tlie  return  of  Ivan  Petrovitch  did 
not  please  her;  so  long  as  the  Princess  Kubenskoy 
had  kept  him  witli  her,  she  had  cherislied  the  hope 
of  receiving  at  least  half  of  the  parental  estate: 
she  resembled  her  grandmother  in  her  avarice. 
Moreover,  Glafira  was  envious  of  her  brother: 
he  was  so  cultivated,  he  spoke  French  so  well,  witli 
a  Parisian  accent,  while  slie  was  scarcely  able  to 
say:  "^  bon  jour,"  and  ''comment  vous  portez 
vous?  "  To  tell  the  truth,  her  parents  did  not  un- 
derstand any  French  at  all, — but  that  did  not 
render  it  any  the  more  pleasant  for  her. 

Ivan  Petrovitch  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
himself  for  tedium  and  melancholy;  he  spent 
nearly  a  year  in  the  country,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
like  ten  years. — Only  with  his  mother  did  he  re- 
lieve his  heart,  and  he  was  wont  to  sit,  by  the  hour, 
in  her  low-ceiled  rooms,  listening  to  the  simple 
prattle  of  the  good  woman,  and  gorging  liimself 
with    preserves.      It   so   happened,    that   among 

51 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

Anna  l*a\  loviia's  maids  tliere  was  one  very  pretty- 
girl .  \\  itli  clear,  gentle  eyes  and  delicate  features, 
named  Mahinya,  both  clever  and  modest.  She 
pleased  Ivan  l'etr(3Aitch  at  first  sight,  and  he  fell 
in  l()\e  witli  her:  he  fell  in  love  with  her  timid 
walk,  her  shy  answers,  her  soft  voice,  her  gentle 
smile;  with  every  passing  day  she  seemed  to  him 
more  charming.  And  she  became  attached  to  Ivan 
Petroviteh  with  her  whole  soul,  as  only  Russian 
girls  can  become  attached — and  gave  herself  to 
liim. 

In  the  country  manor-house  of  a  landed  pro- 
prietor, no  secret  can  be  kept  long:  every  one 
soon  knew  of  the  bond  between  the  j'oung  master 
and  ^lalanya:  the  tidings  of  this  connection  at 
last  reached  Piotr  Andreitch  himself.  At  any 
other  time,  he  would,  in  all  probability,  have  paid 
no  heed  to  such  an  insignificant  matter;  but  he 
had  long  been  in  a  rage  with  liis  son,  and  rejoiced 
at  the  opportunity  to  ])ut  to  shame  the  Peters- 
burg philosopher  and  dandy.  Tumult,  shrieks, 
and  uproar  arose:  jNIalanya  was  locked  up  in  the 
lumber-room;  Ivan  Petroviteh  was  summoned  to 
his  parent.  Anna  Pavlovna  also  hastened  up  at 
the  outcry.  She  made  an  effort  to  pacify  her  hus- 
band, but  Piotr  Andreitch  no  longer  listened  to 
anything.  Like  a  vulture  he  pounced  upon  liis 
son,  upbraided  liim  with  immorality,  with  im- 
piety, with  liypocrisy;  incidentally,  he  vented  on 
liim    all    liis    accumulated    wrath    against    tlie 

52 


A  NOBLEISrAX  S   NEST 

Princess  Kubenskoy,  and  overwhelmed  him  with 
insnlting  epitliets.  At  first,  Ivan  Petrovitch  lield 
his  peace,  a!id  stood  firm,  but  when  liis  father  took 
it  into  his  liead  to  tin-eaten  him  Avith  a  disarace- 
ful  chastisement,  he  lost  ])atience.  "  The  fa- 
natic Diderot  has  come  on  the  statue  again,"  he 
thought, — "so  just  wait.  Til  put  him  in  action; 
I  '11  astonish  you  all." 

Thereupon,  in  a  quiet  voice,  although  trem- 
bling in  every  limb,  Ivan  Petrovitch  announced 
to  his  father,  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  up- 
braiding him  with  immorality,  that,  although  he 
did  not  intend  to  justify  his  fault,  yet  he  was 
ready  to  rectify  it,  and  that  the  more  willingly  be- 
cause he  felt  himself  superior  to  all  i)rejudices 
— in  short,  he  was  ready  to  marry  Malanya.  By 
uttering  these  words,  Ivan  Petrovitch  did,  un- 
doubtedly, attain  his  object:  he  astounded  Piotr 
Andreitch  to  such  a  degree,  that  the  latter  stared 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  was  rendered  dumb  for  a 
moment;  but  he  immediately  recovered  himself, 
and  just  as  he  was,  clad  in  a  short  coat  lined  with 
squirrel-skin,  and  with  slippers  on  his  bare  feet, 
he  flung  himself  with  clenched  fists  upon  Ivan 
Petrovitch,  who  that  day,  as  though  expressly, 
had  his  hair  dressed  a  la  Titus,  and  had  donned  a 
new  blue  English  dress-coat,  boots  with  tassels, 
and  dandified  chamois  trousers,  skin-tight.  Anna 
Pavlovna  shrieked  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  but  her  son  ran 

53 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

tlirougli  the  whole  house,  sprang  out  into  the 
yard,  rushed  into  the  vegetable  garden,  across  the 
garden,  flew  nut  upon  the  highway,  and  kept  run- 
ning, without  looking  behind  him,  until,  at  last, 
he  ceased  to  hear  behind  him  the  heavy  tramp  of 
iiis  father's  footsteps,  and  his  violent,  broken 
shouts.  ..."  Stop,  rascal!  "  lie  roared, — "  stop! 
I   11  curse  thee!  ' 

Ivan  Petrovitch  hid  himself  in  the  house  of  a 
neighbouring  })easant  proprietor,  while  Piotr  An- 
dreitcli  i-eturned  home  utterly  exhausted  and 
perspiring,  and  announcing  almost  before  he  had 
recovered  his  breath,  that  he  would  deprive  his 
son  of  his  blessing  and  his  heritage,  ordered  all 
his  idiotic  books  to  be  burned,  and  the  maid  Ma- 
lanya  to  be  sent  forthwith  to  a  distant  village. 
Kind  peo])le  turned  uj),  who  sought  out  Ivan  Pe- 
trovitch and  informed  him  of  all.  JNIortified,  en- 
raged, he  vowed  that  he  would  take  revenge  on 
his  father;  and  that  very  night,  lying  in  wait  for 
the  peasant  cart  in  w^hich  JSIalanj^a  w'as  being  car- 
ried off,  he  rescued  her  by  force,  galloped  off  with 
lier  to  the  nearest  town,  and  married  her.  He  w^as 
supplied  with  money  b}-^  a  neighbour,  an  eternally 
intoxicated  and  extremely  good-natured  retired 
naval  officer,  a  passionate  lover  of  every  sort  of 
noble  adventure,  as  he  expressed  it.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day,  Ivan  Petrovitch  wrote  a  caustically- 
cold  and  courteous  letter  to  Piotr  Andreitch,  and 
Ijctook  himself  to  an  estate  where  dwelt  his  sec- 

54 


A  NOELEMAN  S  XKST 

ond  cousin,  Dmitry  Pcstoft',  and  liis  sister,  jNlurl'a 
Tiniofeevna,  already  known  to  the  reader.  He 
told  them  everything,  announced  tliat  lie  intended 
to  go  to  Petersburg  to  seek  a  place,  and  recjuested 
them  to  give  shelter  to  his  wife,  for  a  time  at 
least.  At  the  word  "  wife  "  he  fell  to  weeping 
bitterly,  and,  despite  his  city  breeding  and  his 
philosophy,  he  prostrated  himself  humbly,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  Russian  beggar,  before  the  feet 
of  his  relatives,  and  even  beat  his  brow  against 
the  floor.  The  Pestoffs,  kind  and  compassionate 
people,  gladly  acceded  to  his  request;  he  spent 
three  weeks  with  them,  in  secret  ex])ectation  of  a 
reply  from  his  father;  but  no  reply  came, — and 
none  could  come.  Piotr  Andreitch,  on  learning 
of  his  son's  marriage,  had  taken  to  his  bed,  and 
had  forbidden  the  name  of  Ivan  Petrovitch  to 
be  mentioned  in  his  presence;  but  his  mother, 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  husband,  borrowed 
five  hundred  rubles  from  the  ecclesiastical  super- 
visor of  the  diocese,  and  sent  them  to  him,  to- 
gether with  a  small  holy  picture  for  his  wife;^  she 
was  afraid  to  write,  but  she  gave  orders  that  Ivan 
Petrovitch  was  to  be  told,  by  the  lean  ])easant  her 
envoy,  who  managed  to  walk  sixty  versts  in 
the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  that  he  must  not 
grieve  too  much,  that,  God  willing,  everything 
would  come  right,  and  his  father  v/ould  convert 
wrath  into  mercy ;  that  she,  also,  ^^'ould  have  pre- 

^  That  is  to  say,  she  scut   licr  iiiatt-rnal   l)lessing. — Thaxslator. 

55 


A   XOT^LEMxVN'S  NEST 

Icrrctl  a  iliflVRnl  dauglittr-iii-law,  but  that,  evi- 
dently, God  had  so  willed  it,  and  she  sent  her  ma- 
ternal blessing  to  ^lalanya  Sergyeevna.  The 
lean  little  peasant  received  a  ruble,  requested  per- 
mission to  see  liis  new  mistress,  to  whom  he  was 
ivlated  as  co-sponsor  at  a  baptism,  kissed  her 
hand,  and  hastened  off  homeward. 

And  I\an  I'etrovitch  set  off  for  Petersburg 
with  a  light  lieart.  The  unknown  future  awaited 
him;  poverty,  perhaps,  menaced  him,  but  he  had 
bidden  farewell  to  the  life  in  the  country  which 
he  detested,  and,  most  important  of  all,  he  had  not 
betrayed  his  teachers,  he  really  had  "  put  in  ac- 
tion "  and  justified  in  fact  Kousseau,  Diderot, 
and  la  declaration  des  droits  de  l'}ioimi\e.  .  A 
sense  of  duty  accomplished,  of  triumph,  of  pride, 
filled  his  soul;  and  his  separation  from  his  wife 
did  not  greatly  alarm  him;  the  necessity  of  living 
uninterruptedly  with  his  wife  would  have  per- 
turbed him  more.  That  affair  was  ended;  he 
must  take  up  other  affairs.  In  Petersburg,  con- 
trary to  liis  own  expectation,  fortune  smiled  on 
liim:  I'rincess  Kubenskoy — whom  Monsieur 
Courtin  had  already  succeeded  in  abandoning, 
but  who  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  dying, — by  way, 
in  some  measure,  of  repairing  the  injury  which 
she  had  done  to  her  nephew,  recommended  him  to 
tlie  good  graces  of  all  her  friends,  and  gave  him 
five  thousand  rubles,— almost  her  last  farthing, — 
and  a  I.e])fkovsky  watch  with  his  coat  of  arms 

56 


A  XOBT.E^fAX  S  XEST 

in  a  o-arland  of  cupids.  Tliree  months  liad  not 
elapsed,  when  he  had  ah-eady  obtained  a  phiee  in 
the  Rnssian  mission  to  London,  and  he  went  to 
sea  on  the  first  En*>lisli  ship  wliicli  sailed  (tliere 
was  no  thouglit  of  steamers  in  those  days).  A 
few  months  later,  he  received  a  letter  from  l^es- 
toff.  The  kind-hearted  sqm're  conf»ratnhited 
Ivan  Petroviteli  on  tlie  birth  of  a  son,  who  had 
made  his  appearance  in  the  world,  in  tlie  \  illage 
of  Pokrovskoe,  on  Angnst  20,  1807,  and  was 
named  Feodor,  in  honour  of  the  holy  martyi-, 
Feodor  the  Strategist.  Owing  to  her  extreme 
weakness,  JNIalanya  Sergyeevna  added  only  a  few 
lines;  but  those  few  lines  astonished  Ivan  Petro- 
vitch:  he  was  not  aware  that  ^Nlarfa  Timofeevna 
had  taught  liis  w^ife  to  read  and  write.  However, 
Ivan  Petrovitch  did  not  give  himself  up  for  long 
to  the  sweet  agitation  of  paternal  emotions:  he 
was  paying  court  to  one  of  the  most  famous 
Phrynes  or  Laises  of  the  period  (classical  a^jpel- 
lations  were  still  flourishing  at  that  epocli)  ;  the 
peace  of  Tilsit  had  just  been  concluded,  and 
everybody  was  making  haste  to  enjoyment,  every- 
thing was  whirling  round  in  a  sort  of  mad  whirl- 
wind. He  had  very  little  money;  but  he  played 
luckily  at  cards,  lie  ])icked  up  acquaintances,  he 
took  part  in  all  the  merrymakings, — in  a  word, 
he  was  dashing  along  under  full  sail. 


57 


IX 

It  was  long  before  old  Lavretzky  could  forgive 
his  son  for  his  marriage;  if,  after  the  lapse  of 
lialf  a  year,  Ivan  Petrovitch  had  presented  him- 
self in  contrition,  and  liad  flung  himself  at  his 
feet,  he  would,  probal)ly,  have  pardoned  him,  af- 
ter first  scolding  him  roundly,  and  administering 
a  few  taps  with  his  crutch,  by  way  of  inspiring 
awe;  but  Ivan  Petrovitch  was  living  abroad,  and, 
evidently,  cared  not  a  ra]). — "  Hold  your  tongue! 
Don't  dare !  "  Piotr  Andreitch  kept  repeating  to 
his  wife,  as  soon  as  she  tried  to  incline  him  to 
mercy:  "  He  ought  to  pray  to  God  for  me  for- 
ever, the  pup,  for  not  having  laid  my  curse  upon 
him ;  my  late  father  would  have  slain  him  with  his 
own  hands,  the  good-for-nothing,  and  he  would 
liave  done  right."  At  such  terrible  speeches,  Anna 
Pcivlovna  merely  crossed  herself  furtively.  As 
for  Ivan  Petrovitch's  wife,  Piotr  Andreitch,  at 
first,  would  not  allow  her  to  be  mentioned,  and 
even  in  reply  to  a  letter  of  PestofF,  wherein  the 
latter  alluded  to  his  daughter-in-law,  he  gave  or- 
ders to  sav  to  him,  that  he  knew  nothing  whatever 
about  any  daughter-in-law  of  liis,  and  tliat  it  was 
j)rohibited  by  the  laws  to  harbour  runaway  maids, 

58 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   NEST 

on  which  point  he  regarded  it  as  his  duty  to  warn 
him;  but  hiter  on,  when  he  learned  ol'  the  birth 
of  a  grandson,  he  softened,  gave  orders  that  in- 
(juiries  should  be  made  on  the  sly  concerning  the 
health  of  the  young  mother,  and  sent  her,  also  as 
tliough  it  did  not  come  from  him,  a  little  money. 
Fedya  had  not  reached  his  first  birtliday,  when 
Anna  Pavlovna  was  seized  with  a  fatal  illness.  A 
few  days  before  her  end,  when  she  could  no  longer 
leave  her  bed,  she  declared  to  her  husband,  in  the 
presence  of  the  priest,  that  she  wished  to  see  and 
bid  farewell  to  her  daughter-in-law,  and  to  bestow 
her  blessing  on  her  grandchild.  The  afflicted  old 
man  soothed  her,  and  immediately  sent  his  own 
equipage  for  his  daughter-in-law,  for  the  first 
time  calling  her  JNIalanya  Sergyeevna.^  She  came 
with  her  son  and  with  INIarfa  Timofeerna,  who 
would  not  let  her  go  alone  on  any  terms,  and 
would  not  have  allowed  her  to  be  affronted.  Half 
dead  with  terror,  JMalanya  entered  Piotr  Andre- 
itch's  study.  The  nurse  carried  Fedya  after  her. 
Piotr  Andreitch  gazed  at  her  in  silence;  she  ap- 
proached to  kiss  his  hand;  her  quivering  lips 
hardly  met  in  a  noiseless  kiss. 

"  Well,  new^-ground,  undried  noblewoman,"' — 
he  said  at  last: — "  how  do  you  do;  let  us  go  to  the 
mistress." 

He  rose  and  bent  over  Fedya ;  tlie  baby  smiled, 

^  Serfs  were  not  addresst-d  w  itli  tlicir  j)atn)iiymic  by  tlicir 
superiors.— TitANsi.ATOK. 

59 


A  XOliLEMAX  S  NEST 

and  stretclied  out  his  little,  white  arms.     The  old 
man  was  completely  upset. 

'' Okh,"  he  said, — "thou  orphan!  Thou  hast 
plead  thy  father's  cause  with  me;  I  will  not  aban- 
don tliee.  my  hirdling!  " 

As  soon  as  ^lalanya  Sergyeevna  entered  the 
bedcliamber  of  Anna  Pavlovna,  she  knelt  down 
near  the  door.  ^Vnna  Pavlovna  beckoned  her  to 
the  bed,  embraced  her,  blessed  her  son ;  then,  turn- 
ing her  countenance,  ravaged  by  disease,  to  her 
husband,  she  tried  to  sj^eak.  .  . 

''  1  know,  I  know  what  entreaty  thou  desirest 
to  make," — said  Piotr  Andreitch :— "  do  not 
worry:  she  sliall  stay  with  us,  and  I  will  pardon 
A'iinka  for  her  sake." 

Anna  Pavlovna,  with  an  effort,  grasped  her 
husband's  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  On 
that  same  evening  she  died. 

Piotr  Andreitch  kept  his  word.  He  informed 
his  son,  that,  for  the  sake  of  his  mother's  dying 
hour,  for  the  sake  of  baby  Feodor,  he  restored  to 
him  his  blessing,  and  would  keep  ^lalanya  Ser- 
gyeevna in  his  own  house.  Two  rooms  were  set 
apart  for  lier  use  in  the  entresol,  he  introduced 
her  to  his  most  respected  visitor,  one-eyed  Briga- 
dier Skuryokhin,  and  to  his  wife;  he  presented 
her  with  two  maids  and  a  page-boy  for  errands, 
^larfa  Timofeevna  bade  her  farewell;  she  de- 
tested Glafira,  and  quarrelled  with  her  thrice  in 
the  course  of  one  day. 

60 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   NEST 

At  first  tlic  poor  woman  found  litr  situation 
painful  and  awkward;  but  afterward,  slie  learned 
to  bear  things  patiently,  and  became  accustomed 
to  her  father-in-law.  He,  also,  became  accus- 
tomed to  her,  he  even  grew  to  love  her,  although 
he  almost  never  spoke  to  her,  although  in  his  ca- 
resses a  certain  involuntary  disdain  toward  her 
was  perceptible.  JNlalanya  Sergyeevna  had  most 
of  all  to  endure  from  her  sister-in-law.  Gla- 
fira,  already  during  her  mother's  lifetime,  had 
succeeded  in  getting  gradually  the  entire  house 
into  her  hands :  every  one,  beginning  with  her  fa- 
ther, was  subject  to  her;  not  a  lump  of  sugar  was 
given  out  without  her  permission ;  she  would  have 
consented  to  die,  rather  than  to  share  the  power 
with  any  other  mistress  of  the  house!  Her  bro- 
ther's marriage  had  angered  her  even  more  than 
it  had  Piotr  Andreitch:  she  took  it  upon  herself 
to  teach  the  upstart  a  lesson,  and  from  the  very 
first  hour  INIalanya  Sergyeevna  became  her  slave. 

And  ho\v  could  she  contend  witli  the  self- 
willed,  arrogant  Glafira,  she  who  was  mild,  con- 
stantly 'agitated,  and  terrified,  and  also  weak  in 
health?  Not  a  day  passed,  that  Glafira  did  not  re- 
mind her  of  her  former  position,  did  not  ])raise 
her  for  not  forgetting  her  place.  ^lalanya  Ser- 
gyeevna would  gladly  have  reconciled  herself  to 
these  reminders  and  praises,  however  bitter  they 
miffht  be  ...  .  but  thev  took  Fedva  awav  from 
her:  that  was  what  broke  her  heart.     Under  the 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

pretext  tliat  she  \\  as  not  competent  to  take  charge 
of  liis  education,  she  was  hardly  permitted  to  see 
him:  Ghifira  took  this  matter  upon  herself;  the 
child  passed  under  her  full  control.  Malanj^a 
Sergyeevna  hegan,  out  of  grief,  to  entreat  Ivan 
I'etrovitch.  in  her  letters,  to  come  home  as  s}3eed- 
ily  as  possible;  Piotr  xVndrcitch  liimself  wished  to 
see  his  son  :  but  he  merely  wrote  in  reply,  thanking 
his  father  about  his  wife,  and  for  the  money  sent, 
and  promising  to  come  soon, — and  did  not  come. 
The  year  "12  recalled  him,  at  last,  to  his  father- 
land from  abroad. 

On  meeting  again,  for  the  first  time,  after  their 
six  years'  separation,  the  father  and  son  ex- 
changed embraces,  and  did  not  allude,  by  so  much 
as  a  word,  to  their  former  dissensions;  they  were 
not  in  the  mood  for  it  then:  all  Russia  had  risen 
against  the  enemy,  and  both  of  them  felt  that 
Russian  blood  ^^'as  flowing  in  their  veins.  Piotr 
Andreitch,  at  his  own  expense,  clothed  an  entire 
regiment  of  soldiers.  But  the  war  came  to  an 
end,  the  danger  passed;  again  Ivan  Petrovitch 
began  to  feel  bored,  again  he  longed  for  far-away 
places,  for  the  world  to  which  he  had  grown  fast, 
and  where  he  felt  himself  at  home.  INIalanya  Ser- 
gyeevna  could  not  hold  him  back;  she  counted  for 
too  little  witli  him.  Even  her  hopes  had  not  been 
realised:  her  husband,  also,  deemed  it  much  more 
fitting  that  Fedya's  education  should  be  entrusted 
to  Cilafira.     Ivan  Pet rov itch's  poor  wife  could 

62 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

not  withstand  this  blow,  could  not  endure  this  sec- 
ond parting:  without  a  murmur,  in  a  few  days 
she  expired.  During  tlie  wliole  course  of  her  life, 
she  had  never  been  able  to  offer  resistance,  and 
she  did  not  combat  her  malady.  She  could  no 
longer  S])eak,  the  shadows  of  the  toinl)  liad  al- 
ready descended  upon  her  face,  but  hei-  features, 
as  of  old,  expressed  patient  ])er])lexity,  and  the 
steadfast  gentleness  of  submission;  with  the  same 
dumb  humility  she  gazed  at  Glafira,  and,  like 
Anna  Pavlovna  on  her  deathbed,  she  kissed  the 
hand  of  Piotr  Andreitch,  and  pressed  her  li])s  to 
Glafira's  hand  also,  entrusting  to  her,  Glafira, 
her  only  son.  Thus  ended  its  earthly  careei-  a 
kind  and  gentle  being,  torn,  God  alone  knows 
why,  from  its  native  soil  and  inmiediately  flung 
aside,  like  an  uprooted  sajjling,  witli  its  roots 
to  the  sun;  it  faded  away,  it  vanished,  without  a 
trace,  that  being,  and  no  one  mentioned  it.  Those 
who  grieved  for  Malanya  Sergyeevna  were  her 
maid  and  Piotr  Andreitcli.  The  old  man  missed 
her  silent  presence.  "  Forgive — farewell,  my  pa- 
tient one!  "  he  whispered,  as  he  made  her  the  part- 
ing reverence  in  church.  He  wept  as  he  threw 
a  handful  of  earth  into  the  grave. 

He  did  not  long  survive  lier — not  more  than 
five  years.  In  the  winter  of  1811),  lie  died  peace- 
fully in  Moscow,  \vhither  he  had  removed  with 
Glafira  and  his  grandson,  and  left  orders  in  his 
will,  that  he  should  be  buried  by  the  side  of  Anna 

63 


A  XOTJLEMAN'S  XEST 

Pdvlovna  and  "  Malasha."  Ivan  Petrovitcli  was 
in  Paris  at  the  time,  for  his  pleasure;  he  had  re- 
signed from  tlie  service  soon  after  1815.  On 
lieariptj"  of  liis  father's  death,  he  decided  to  return 
to  Russia.  It  was  necessary  to  consider  the  or- 
ganisation of  tlie  estate  .  .  .  and  Fedya,  ac- 
conhng  to  Glaffra's  letter,  had  reached  the  age 
of  twelve  years,  and  tlie  time  had  arrived  for  oc- 
cupying himself  seriously  witli  the  hoy's  educa- 
tion. 


o4 


X 

Ivan  Petkovitch  returned  to  Russia  an  Aiiirlo- 
maniac.  His  closely-clipped  liair,  starched  neck- 
cloth, long-skirted,  yellowish-gray  overcoat  with 
a  multitude  of  capes,  his  sour  expression  of  vis- 
age, a  certain  harshness  and  also  indifference  of 
demeanour,  his  manner  of  talking  through  his 
teeth,  a  w  ooden,  ahrupt  laugh,  the  ahsence  of 
smiles,  a  conversation  exclusively  political  and 
politico-economical,  a  passion  for  hloody  roast 
beef  and  port  wine, — everything  about  him  fairly 
reeked  of  Great  Britain ;  he  seemed  thoroughly 
imbued  with  her  spirit.  But — strange  to  say! 
while  he  had  turned  into  an  Anglomaniac,  Ivan 
Petr()vitch  had  simultaneously  become  a  patriot; 
at  all  events,  he  called  himself  a  patriot,  although 
he  was  but  badly  acquaijited  with  Russia,  was  not 
wedded  to  a  single  Russian  habit,  and  expressed 
himself  queerly  in  Russian:  in  ordinary  conver- 
sation, his  speech  was  clumsy  and  ])ithless,  studded 
all  over  with  Gallicisms;  but  no  sooner  did  the  dis- 
cussion touch  upon  important  topics,  than  Ivan 
Petrovitch  instantly  brought  out  such  expressions 
as:  "  to  show  new  proofs  of  self-zeal,"^  "  that  dotif 

'  That  is  to  say,  he  used  sucli  fundamentally  national  words  as  oc- 
cur only  in  the  Old  Church  Slavonic,  well-nitrh  untranslatable  here, 
also  employed  upon  occasions  of  ceremony. —  Translator. 

65 


A  XOHLEMAX  S   XEST 

not  agree  \\itli  the  imturu  of  the  eircumstances," 
and  so  forth.  Ivan  Petrovitch  brought  with  him 
several  nianuseript  plans  touching  the  organisa- 
tion and  amelioration  of  the  empire;  he  was  ex- 
tremely dissatisfied  with  everything  he  saw, — the 
absence  of  system,  in  particular,  stirred  up  his 
])ile.  On  meeting  his  sister,  he  announced  to  her, 
wWh  his  \ery  first  words,  that  he  intended  to  in- 
troduce radical  reforms,  that  henceforth  every- 
thing on  his  estate  should  i)roceed  upon  a  new 
system.  Glafira  Petrovna  made  no  reply  to  Ivan 
Petrovitch,  but  merely  set  her  teeth,  and  said  to 
herself:  "  And  what  is  to  become  of  me?  "—But 
when  she  reached  the  country  estate,  in  company 
with  her  brother  and  her  nephew,  she  speedily  re- 
gained her  composure.  In  the  house,  several 
changes  actually  took  place:  the  female  hangers- 
on  and  drones  were  subjected  to  instant  expul- 
sion; among  their  number  two  old  women  suf- 
fered, one  who  was  blind  and  the  other  crippled 
with  paralysis,  also  a  decrepit  INIajor  of  the 
Otchakoflf  period,  who,  on  account  of  his  truly 
astonishing  \'oracity,  was  fed  on  nothing  but  black 
bread  and  lentils.  A  decree  was  also  issued,  that 
the  former  guests  were  not  to  be  received:  they 
were  superseded  by  a  distant  neighbour,  a  fair- 
Jiaired,  scrofulous  baron,  a  very  well  educated 
and  very  stupid  man.  New  furniture  from  INIos- 
cow  made  its  appearance;  cuspidors,  and  bells, 
and  wash-stands  were  introduced  and  they  began 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

to  serve  the  noon  breakfast  (lifTVinitly;  foi- 
eign  wines  took  the  place  of  vodka  and  lionic- 
made  li(|ueurs;  new  liveries  were  made  f(^r  tlic 
servants;  the  motto,  "  in  recto  virtus,"  was  addrd 
to  the  family  coat  of  arms.  .  .  .  But,  in  reality, 
(rlafira's  power  was  not  diminished:  all  the  dis- 
bursements and  purcliases  depended  on  hei-,  as 
before;  the  imported  Alsatian  valet  made  an  at- 
tempt to  vie  with  her — and  lost  his  place,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  his  master  took  his  side.  So  far 
as  the  management,  the  administration,  of  the 
estates  was  concerned  (Glafira  Petrovna  entered 
into  all  these  matters),  despite  Ivan  Petrovitch's 
frequently  expressed  intention  "  to  infuse  new 
life  into  this  chaos,"  everything  remained  as  of 
yore,  except  that,  here  and  there,  the  quit-rents 
were  augmented,  and  the  husbandry-service  be- 
came more  oppressive,  and  the  peasants  were  for- 
bidden to  apply  directly  to  Ivan  Petrovitch.  The 
patriot  heartily  despised  his  fellow-citizens.  Ivan 
Petrovitch's  sj^stem  w^as  applied,  in  its  full  force, 
to  Fedj'a  only:  his  education  actually  was  sub- 
jected to  "  radical  reform  "  ;  his  father  had  ex- 
clusive charge  of  it. 


67 


XI 

Up  to  the  time  of  Ivan  Petrovitch's  return  from 
abroad,  Fedya  had  been,  as  we  have  already  said, 
in  the  liands  of  Glafira  Petrovna.  He  was  less 
tlian  eight  years  of  age  when  his  mother  died,  he 
had  not  seen  her  every  day,  and  he  had  loved  her 
passionately :  the  memory  of  her,  of  her  pale  and 
gentle  face,  her  melancholy  glances  and  timid 
caresses,  had  forever  imprinted  itself  upon  his 
heart;  but  he  dimly  comprehended  her  position 
in  the  house;  he  was  conscious  that  between  him 
and  her  there  existed  a  barrier  which  she  dared 
not  and  could  not  overthrow.  He  shunned  his 
father,  and  Ivan  Petrovitch  never  petted  him; 
his  grandfather  occasionally  stroked  his  head,  and 
permitted  him  to  kiss  his  hand,  but  he  called  him 
and  considered  liim  a  little  fool.  After  the  death 
of  ]\Ialanya  Sergyeevna,  his  aunt  took  him  in 
hand  definitively.  Fedya  feared  her, — feared  her 
])riglit,  keen  eyes,  her  sharp  voice;  he  dared  not 
utter  a  sound  in  her  presence;  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  when  he  had  merely  fidgeted  on  his 
chair,  she  would  scream  out :  "  AVliere  art  thou 
going?  sit  still!  "  On  Sundays,  after  the  Liturgy, 
he  was  ])ermitted  to  play, — tliat  is  to  say,  lie  was 

08 


A  NORLKMAX  S   NEST 

given  ii  tliick  book,  a  mysterious  l)ook,  the  work 
of  a  eertaiii  Maxiinoviteh-Anihodik,  enlitk-d: 
"  Symbols  and  Kmbkms."  This  book  contained 
about  a  thousand  in  part  very  puzzHng  pictures, 
with  equally  i)U'/zling  explanations  in  five  lan- 
guages. Cupid,  with  a  plump,  naked  body, 
played  a  great  part  in  these  pictures.  To  one  of 
them,  labelled  "  Saffron  and  Rainbow,"  was  ap- 
pended the  explanation :  "  The  action  of  this  is 
great  .  .  .  ";  opposite  another,  which  represented 
"  A  Heron  flying  with  a  violet  blossom  in  his 
mouth,"  stood  the  inscription:  "  All  of  them  are 
known  unto  thee."  Cupid  and  a  bear  licking  its 
cub  was  designated  as:  "  Little  by  little."  Fedj^a 
contemplated  these  pictures ;  he  was  familiar  with 
the  most  minute  details  of  them  all ;  some  of  them 
• — always  the  same  ones — set  him  to  thinking  and 
excited  his  imagination;  he  knew  no  other  diver- 
sions. Whei?  the  time  came  to  teach  him  lan- 
guages and  music,  Glafira  Petrovna  hired,  for  a 
paltry  sum,  an  eklerly  spinster,  a  Swede,  with 
frightened,  hare-like  eyes,  who  spoke  French  and 
German  indifferently,  played  the  piano  after  a 
fashion,  and,  in  addition,  knew  how  to  salt  cu- 
cumbers in  first-class  style.  In  the  society  of  this 
instructress,  of  his  aunt,  and  of  an  old  chamber- 
maid, Vasilievna,  Fedya  passed  four  whole  years. 
He  used  to  sit  in  the  corner  with,  his  "  Emblems  " 
— and  sit  .  .  .  and  sit  .  .  .  while  the  low-ceiled 
room   smelled   of   geraniums,   a   solitary   tallow 

69 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

candle  burned  dimly,  a  cricket  chirped  monoto- 
nously, as  tlu)u<>li  it  were  bored,  the  little  clock 
ticked  hastily  on  the  wall,  a  mouse  stealthily 
scratched  and  gnawed  behind  the  wall-hangings, 
and  the  three  old  maids,  like  the  Parca?,  moved 
their  knitting-needles  silently  and  swiftly  to  and 
fro,  the  shadows  cast  by  their  hands  now  flitted, 
again  (juivered  strangeh'  in  the  semi-darkness, 
and  strange  thoughts,  also  half-dark,  swarmed  in 
the  child's  head.  Xo  one  would  have  called  Fedya 
an  interesting  child :  he  was  quite  pallid,  but  fat, 
awkwardly  built,  and  clumsy, — "  a  regular  peas- 
ant," according  to  Glaf  ira  Petrovna's  expression ; 
the  pallor  would  speedily  have  disappeared  from 
his  face  if  he  had  been  permitted  to  go  out  of 
doors  more  frequently.  He  studied  tolerably 
well,  although  he  frequently  idled;  he  never 
wept;  on  the  other  hand,  at  times  a  fierce  obsti- 
nacy came  over  him;  then  no  one  could  do  any- 
thing with  him.     Fedya  loved  none  of  the  j^er- 

sons  around  him Woe  to  the  heart  which 

loves  not  in  its  youth ! 

Thus  did  Ivan  Petrovitch  find  him,  and  with- 
out loss  of  time  he  set  to  work  to  apply  his  sys- 
tem to  him. — "  I  want  to  make  a  man  of  him  first 
of  all,  un  Iwmme," — he  said  to  Glafira  Petrovna: 
— "  and  not  only  a  man,  but  a  Spartan."  Ivan 
Petrovitch  began  the  execution  of  his  intention 
by  dressing  his  son  in  Highland  garb:  the  lad 
of  twelve  began  to  go  about  with  bare  knees, 

TO 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

and  with  a  cock's  feather  in  his  crush-cap;  the 
Swede  was  superseded  by  a  youn;^'  SnnIss  man, 
who  had  learned  gymnastics  to  pcri'ection;  music, 
as  an  occupation  unwortiiy  of  a  man,  was  han- 
islied  forever;  the  natural  sciences,  international 
law,  mathematics,  the  car])enter's  trade  after  the 
advice  of  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  and  heraldry, 
for  the  maintenance  of  knio-htly  sentiments — 
these  were  the  things  wherewith  the  future 
"  man  "  was  to  occupy  himself;  he  was  waked  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  immediately 
drenched  with  cold  water,  and  made  to  run  around 
a  tall  pillar,  at  the  end  of  a  rope;  he  ate  once  a 
day,  one  dish,  rode  on  horseback,  practised  firing 
a  cross-bow;  on  every  convenient  opportunity  he 
exercised  his  strength  of  will,  after  the  model  of 
his  parent,  and  every  evening  he  noted  down  in 
a  special  book  an  account  of  the  past  day  and  his 
impressions;  and  Ivan  Petrovitch,  on  his  side, 
wrote  him  precepts  in  French,  in  which  he  called 
him  mon  fits,  and  addressed  him  as  vous.  In  Rus- 
sian Fedya  called  his  father  "  thou,"  but  he  dared 
not  sit  down  in  his  presence.  The  "  system  "'  be- 
wildered the  boy,  introduced  confusion  into  his 
head,  squeezed  it;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  new 
mode  of  life  acted  beneficially  on  his  health:  at 
first  he  caught  a  fever,  but  soon  recovered,  and 
became  a  fine,  dashing  fellow.  His  father  was 
proud  of  him,  and  called  him,  in  his  strange  jar- 
ji-on:    "A  son  of  nature,  iiiv   i)roduct."     When 

71 


A  XOBT.EMAX'S  XEST 

Fedya  reached  tlie  age  of  sixteen,  Ivan  Petro- 
vitch  reaarded  it  as  iiis  dutv  to  instil  into  liini  be- 
times  scorn  for  the  fair  sex, — and  the  youthful 
Spartan,  with  timidity  in  his  soul,  with  the  first 
down  upon  his  lips,  full  of  vigour,  strength,  and 
blood,  attempted  to  appear  indifferent,  cold,  and 
harsli. 

^Meanwhile,  time  passed  and  passed.  Ivan  Pe- 
trovitch  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  year  at 
I^avriki  (that  was  the  name  of  his  paternal  es- 
tate), and  in  tlie  winters  he  went  alone  to  ]Mos- 
cow,  stopped  at  an  inn,  diligently  frequented  the 
club,  orated  and  set  forth  liis  ])lans  in  drawing- 
rooms,  and  conducted  himself  more  like  an  An- 
glomaniac,  a  grumbler,  and  a  statesman  than 
ever.  But  the  year  1825  arrived,  and  brought 
\\  ith  jt  much  woe.^  Ivan  Petrovitch's  intimate 
friends  and  acquaintances  were  subjected  to  se- 
vere trials.  Ivan  Petrovitch  made  haste  to  re- 
treat to  his  country  estate,  and  locked  himself  up 
in  his  house.  Another  year  elapsed,  and  Ivan 
Petrovitch  suddenly  grew  feeble,  weakened,  de- 
clined, his  health  deserted  him.  A  free-thinker 
— he  took  to  going  to  church,  and  to  ordering  ser- 
vices of  prayer;  a  European — he  began  to  steam 
himself  at  the  bath,  to  dine  at  two  o'clock,  to  go  to 
bed  at  nine,  to  fall  asleep  to  the  chatter  of  the 
aged  butler;  a  statesman — he  burned  all  his  plans, 
all  his  correspondence,  trembled  before  the  gov- 

'  At   tlic  accession   to   the  tlirone  of  Nicholas   I. — Traxslator. 

72 


A  NOBLKiMAN  S   XKST 

eriior,  and  fidgeted  in  the  presence  of  the  rural 
chief  of  i)()liee;  a  man  with  a  will  of  iron-he 
whimpered  and  complained  when  an  ahscess 
broke  out  on  him,  when  he  was  sensed  with  a  j)late 
of  cold  soiip.  (xlafira  I'etrovna  again  reigned 
over  everything  in  the  house;  again  clerks,  village 
bailiffs,  common  peasants,  began  to  creep  through 
the  back  entrance  to  the  "  ill-tempered  old  hag," 
— that  was  what  the  house-servants  called  her. 
The  change  in  Ivan  I^etrovitch  gave  his  son  a 
great  shock ;  he  was  already  in  his  nineteenth  year, 
and  had  begun  to  reason  and  to  free  himself 
from  the  weight  of  the  hand  which  oppressed 
him.  He  had  noticed,  even  before  this,  a  dis- 
crepancy between  his  father's  words  and  deeds, 
between  his  broad  and  liberal  theories  and  his 
harsh,  petty  despotism;  but  he  had  not  anticipated 
such  a  sudden  break.  The  inveterate  egoist  sud- 
denly revealed  himself  at  full  length.  Young 
Lavretzky  was  getting  ready  to  go  to  Moscow, 
to  prepare  himself  for  the  university, — when  an 
unforeseen,  fresh  calamity  descended  upon  the 
head  of  Ivan  Petroviteh:  he  became  blind,  and 
that  hopelessly,  in  one  day. 

Not  trusting  in  the  skill  of  Russian  physicians, 
he  began  to  take  measures  to  obtain  permission 
to  go  abroad.  It  was  refused.  Then  he  took  his 
son  with  him,  and  for  three  whole  years  he 
roamed  over  Russia,  from  one  doctor  to  anotiier, 
incessantly  journeying  from  town  to  town  and 

73 


A  XORLKMAX S   NEST 

driving  the  j)Iiy.sic'iajis,  his  son,  his  servants,  to 
despair  by  his  pusilhniiniity  and  impatience.  He 
returned  to  I^avriki  a  perfect  rag,  a  tearful  and 
capricious  child.  Bitter  days  ensued,  every  one 
ciuhncd  much  at  his  hands.  Ivan  Petrovitcli 
cahned  down  only  while  he  was  eating  his  dinner; 
lie  had  never  eaten  so  greedily,  nor  so  much;  all 
the  rest  of  the  time  he  never  gave  himself  or 
others  any  peace.  He  prayed,  grumbled  at  fate, 
railed  at  himself,  reviled  politics,  his  system, — re- 
viled everything  which  he  had  made  his  boast  and 
upon  which  he  had  prided  himself,  everything 
which  he  had  held  up  as  an  example  for  his  son; 
he  insisted  that  he  believed  in  notliing,  and  then 
I)rayed  again;  he  could  not  bear  to  be  left  alone 
for  a  single  moment,  and  demanded  from  the 
members  of  his  household,  that  they  should  sit 
uninterruptedly,  day  and  night,  beside  his  arm- 
chair, and  amuse  him  with  stories,  which  he  in- 
cessantly interrupted  with  the  exclamation:  "You 
are  inventing  the  whole  of  it — what  trash !  " 

Glaf ira  Petrovna  had  a  particulai'ly  hard  time ; 
he  positively  could  not  get  along  without  her — 
and  to  the  end  she  comj)lie(l  with  all  the  invalid's 
whims,  although  sometimes  she  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  on  the  instant  to  answer  him,  lest 
the  sound  of  her  voice  should  betray  her  inward 
^^I•ath.  In  this  mannev  he  lingered  on  two  years, 
and  died  in  the  beginning  of  May,  when  he  had 
been  carried  out  upon  the  balcony,  in  the  sunshine. 

74 


A  NOBLKINJiVX  S   NEST 

"  Glashka,  Glashka!  the  bouillon,  the  bouillon, 

you  old  foo "  lisped  his  stiffening  tongue, 

and  without  finishing  the  last  word,  it  became  si- 
lent forever.  Glafira  I'etrovna,  who  had  just 
snatched  the  cup  of  bouillon  from  the  hands  of 
the  butler,  stopped  short,  stared  her  brothei-  in 
the  face,  crossed  herself  slowly  and  broadly,  and 
wntlidrew  in  silence;  and  his  son,  who  was  present, 
said  nothing,  either,  but  leaned  against  the  railing 
of  the  balcony,  and  gazed  for  a  long  time  into  the 
garden,  all  fragrant  and  verdant,  all  glittering 
in  the  rays  of  the  golden  sun  of  spring.  He  was 
twenty-three  years  old;  how  terribly,  how  im- 
perceptibly  fast  those  three  and  twenty  years  had 
sped  past! Life  was  opening  before  him. 


75 


XII 

After  having  buried  his  father,  and  entrusted  to 
the  ininiutable  Glafira  Fetrovna  the  management 
of  the  farming  and  the  oversight  over  the  clerks, 
young  Lavretzky  betook  himself  to  ^Moscow, 
^\•hitller  he  was  drawn  by  an  obscure  but  powerful 
sentiment.  He  recognised  the  defects  of  his  edu- 
cation, and  intended  to  repair  omissions,  so  far 
as  possible.  During  the  last  five  years,  he  had 
read  a  great  deal,  and  had  seen  some  things ;  many 
thoughts  had  been  seething  in  his  brain;  any  pro- 
fessor might  have  envied  him  some  of  his  know- 
ledge, but,  at  the  same  time,  he  did  not  know 
mucli  with  which  every  gymnasium  lad  has  long 
been  familiar.  The  Anglomaniac  had  played  his 
son  an  evil  trick;  his  whimsical  education  had 
borne  its  fruits.  For  long  years,  he  had  abased 
himself  before  his  father  without  a  question ;  but 
when,  at  last,  he  had  divined  him,  the  deed  was 
done,  the  habits  had  become  rooted.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  make  acquaintance  with  people:  at 
twenty-three  years  of  age,  with  an  indomitable 
thirst  for  love  in  his  sliame-stricken  heart,  he  did 
not  dare  to  look  a  single  woman  in  the  eye.  With 
liis  clear,  solid  ])ut  somewhat  heavy  sense,  wuth 

76 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

his    inclination    to   stubl)ornness,    conteni])latioii, 
and  indolence,  he  ought,  I'roni  his  earliest  years, 
to  have  been  cast  into  the  whirlpool  oi'  life,  l)Mt 
he  had  been  ke^jt  in  an  artificial  isolation.  .  .  . 
And  now  the  charmed  circle  was  broken,  yet  he 
continued  to  stand  in  one  spot,  locked  up,  ti<4hlly 
compressed  in  himself.     It  was  ridiculous,  at  his 
age,  to  don  a  student's  uniform:  but  he  was  not 
afraid  of  ridicule:  his  Spartan  training  had  served 
its  turn  to  this  extent  at  least,  that  it  had  devel- 
oped in  him  scorn  for  other  people's  remarks, — 
and  so,  unabashed,  he  donned  the  uniform  of  a 
student.     He  entered  the  physico-mathematical 
department.    Healthy,  rosy-cheeked,  with  a  well- 
grown  beard,  taciturn,  he  produced  a  strange  im- 
pression upon  his  conn-ades;  they  did  not  suspect 
that  in  this  surly  man,  who  punctually  drove  to 
the  lectures  in  a  roomy  country  sledge  and  pair, 
there  was  concealed  almost  a  child.     He  seemed 
to  them  some  sort  of  wise  pedant;  they  did  not 
need  him  and  did  not  seek  his  society,  he  avoided 
them.     In  the  course  of  the  first  two  years  which 
he  spent  at  the  university,  he  came  into  close  con- 
tact with  ordy  one  student,  from  whom  he  took 
lessons  in  Latin.    This  student,  Mikhalevitch  by 
name,  an  enthusiast  and  a  poet,  sincerely  loved 
Lavretzky,  and  quite  innocently  became  the  cause 
of  an  important  change  in  his  fate. 

One  day,  at  the  theatre  (JNIotchaloiF  was  then 
at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  I^avretzky  never 

77 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

missed  a  performance),  he*  saw  a  young  girl  in 
a  box  of  the  bd-ctage, — and,  although  no  woman 
ever  passed  his  surly  figure  without  causing  his 
heart  to  (|ui\ei-.  it  never  yet  had  beaten  so  vio- 
lently. With  her  elbows  resting  on  the  velvet 
of  the  box,  the  young  girl  sat  motionless;  alert, 
young  life  sparkled  in  every  feature  of  her  pretty, 
round,  dark-skinned  face;  an  elegant  mind  was 
expressed  in  the  beautiful  eyes  which  gazed  at- 
tentivelv  and  softly  from  beneath  slender  brows, 
in  the  swift  smile  of  her  expressive  lips,  in  the 
very  attitude  of  her  head,  her  arms,  her  neck;  she 
was  chai'mingly  dressed.  Beside  her  sat  a  wrin- 
kled, sallow  woman,  forty-five  years  of  affe,  with 
a  toothless  smile  on  her  constrainedly-anxious  and 
empty  countenance,  and  in  the  depths  of  the  box 
an  elderly  man  was  visible,  wearing  an  ample 
coat  and  a  tall  neckcloth,  w^ith  an  expression  of 
feeble  stateliness  and  a  certain  obsequious  sus- 
picion in  his  little  eyes,  with  dyed  moustache  and 
side-whiskers,  an  insignificant,  huge  forehead, 
and  furrowed  cheeks, — a  retired  General,  by  all 
the  signs.  Lavretzky  could  not  take  his  eyes  from 
the  young  girl  who  had  startled  him ;  all  at  once, 
the  door  of  the  ])ox  opened,  and  ^likhalevitch  en- 
tered. The  appearance  of  that  man,  almost  his 
sole  acquaintance  in  all  Moscow, — his  appearance 
in  the  company  of  the  only  young  girl  who  had 
engrossed  his  whole  attention,  seemed  to  La- 
vretzky strange  and  significant.    As  he  continued 

78 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

to  gaze  at  the  box,  he  iioliecd  that  all  tlie  persons 
in  it  treated  JNlikhalevitch  hke  an  old  friend. 
The  perforniaiiee  on  the  stage  ceased  to  intei-est 
Lavretzky;  Motchalof!'  himself,  although  that 
evening  he  was  "  in  high  feather,"  did  not  |)io- 
duce  upon  him  the  customary  impression.  In  one 
very  pathetic  passage,  Lavretzky  involuntai-ily 
glanced  at  his  beauty:  she  was  bending  her  whole 
body  forward,  her  cheeks  were  aflame;  under  the 
influence  of  his  persistent  gaze,  her  eyes,  which 
were  riveted  on  the  stage,  turned  slowly,  and 
rested  upon  him.  .  .  .  All  night  long,  those  eyes 
flitted  before  his  vision.  At  last,  the  artificiall\- 
erected  dam  had  given  way:  he  trembled  and 
burned,  and  on  the  following  day  he  betook  him- 
self to  jMikhalevitch.  From  him  he  learned,  thai 
the  l^eauty's  name  was  Varvara  Pavlovna  Ko- 
robyn;  that  the  old  man  and  woman  who  had  sat 
with  her  in  the  box  were  her  father  and  mother, 
and  that  he  himself,  Mikhalevitch,  had  made 
their  acquaintance  a  year  previously,  during  his 
stay  in  the  suburbs  of  INIoscow,  "  on  contract  ser- 
vice "  (as  tutor)  with  Count  N.  The  enthusiast 
expressed  himself  in  the  most  laudatory  manner 
concerning  Varvara  Pavlovna — "  ^ly  dear  fel- 
low," he  exclaimed,  with  the  im])etuous  harmony 
in  his  voice  which  Mas  peculiar  to  him, — "  that 
young  girl  is  an  amazing,  a  talented  being,  an 
artist  in  the  genuine  sense  of  the  word,  and  ex- 
tremely amiable  to  boot." — Perceiving  from  I^a- 

79 


A   XOHLEMAX  S   XEST 

vrttzky's  (jucstion  wliat  an  impression  Varvara 
Pjivlovna  liad  produced  u])on  him,  he  himself  pro- 
posed to  introduce  liim  to  her,  adding  that  he 
was  quite  at  liome  in  their  house;  that  the  General 
was  not  at  all  a  proud  man,  and  the  mother  was 
so  stupid  that  she  all  but  sucked  a  rag.  Lavret- 
zky  blushed,  muttered  something  unintelligible, 
and  fled.  For  five  whole  days  he  wrestled  with 
his  timidity;  on  the  sixth  day  the  young  Spartan 
donned  a  new  uniform,  and  placed  himself  at  the 
disi)osition  of  ^Mikhalevitch,  who  being  his  own 
valet,  confined  liimself  to  brushing  his  hair, — 
and  the  two  set  out  for  the  Korobvns'. 


80 


XIII 

The  fatlier  of  Varvara  Pavlovna,  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch  Korobyu,  INIajor-Cieneral  on  the  retired 
list,  had  spent  his  whole  life  in  Petersburg,  in 
the  service;  had  borne  the  reputation,  in  his  youth, 
of  being  an  accomplished  dancer  and  officer  of 
the  line;  found  himself,  owing  to  poverty,  the 
adjutant  of  two  or  three  ill-favoured  Generals; 
married  the  daughter  of  one  of  them,  receiv- 
ing twenty-five  thousand  rubles  as  her  dowry;  ac- 
quired, in  its  finest  details,  the  love  of  drills 
and  reviews;  toiled,  and  toiled  hard,  for  his  liveli- 
hood, and  at  last,  at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  at- 
tained to  the  rank  of  General,  and  received  a 
regiment.  It  was  time  for  him  to  rest,  and  with- 
out delay  to  establish  his  prosperity  on  a  firm  ba- 
sis; this  was  what  he  calculated  on  doing,  but  he 
managed  the  matter  somewhat  incautiously:  he 
hit  u23on  a  new  method  of  putting  the  coin  of 
the  realm  into  circulation, — the  method  proved 
to  be  a  capital  one,  but  he  did  not  get  out  in  sea- 
son: a  complaint  was  made  against  him;  a  more 
than  unpleasant,  an  ugly  scandal  ensued.  The 
(ieneral  managed  to  wriggle  out  of  the  scandal, 
after  a  fashion,  but  his  career  was  ruined:  he  was 

81 


A  XOBLEMAX  S  NEST 

advised  to  resign.  He  hung  about  in  Petersburg 
for  a  couple  of  years  longer  in  the  hope  that 
some  snug  little  place  would  get  stranded  on  him: 
hut  the  place  did  not  strand  on  him,  and  his 
daughter  came  out  of  the  government  school,  and 
his  expenses  increased  eveiy  day.  .  .  .  Repress- 
ing his  wiath,  he  decided  to  remove  to  INIoscow  for 
the  sake  of  economy,  hired  a  tinv,  low-roofed 
house  on  Old  Stable  Street,  with  a  coat  of  arms 
a  fathom  tall  on  the  roof,  and  began  to  live  the 
life  of  a  Moscow  General  on  the  retired  list, 
spending  27.'50  rubles  a  year.  JNIoscow  is  a  hos- 
pitable town,  glad  to  welcome  everybody  who 
comes  along,  and  more  particularly',  Generals; 
Pavel  Petrovitch's  heavy  figure,  which  yet  was 
not  lacking  in  military  mien,  speedily  began  to 
make  its  appearance  in  the  best  drawing-rooms  of 
M()sco\N'.  His  bald  nape,  with  tufts  of  dyed  hair, 
and  the  dirty  ribbon  of  the  order  of  St.  Anna  on 
a  neckcloth  the  hue  of  the  raven's  wing,  began  to 
be  well  known  to  all  the  easily  bored  and  pallid 
young  men  who  morosely  hovered  around  the 
gambling-tables  while  dancing  was  in  progress. 
Pavel  Petrovitch  understood  how  to  ])lace  himself 
in  society;  he  talked  little,  but,  by  force  of  old 
habit,  thiough  his  nose, — of  course,  not  with  indi- 
viduals l)elonging  to  the  higher  ranks;  he  played 
cards  cautiously,  at  home  he  ate  sparingly,  but 
when  visiting  he  ate  for  six.  Concerning  his  wife, 
there  is  hardly  anything  to  say:  her  name  was 

82 


A  xNOBLKMAN'S  XKST 

Kalliopc  Karluviui;  a  tear  uozcd  Iroin  lur  kit 
eye,  by  virtue  of  whicli  Kalliope  KarloMia  (she 
was,  moreover,  of  (ierinan  extraction)  regarded 
herself  as  a  woniau  of  sentiment;  slie  hved  in  con- 
stant fear  of  something,  never  seemed  to  have  had 
quite  enougli  to  eat,  and  wore  tight  velvet  gowns, 
a  tur])an,  and  dull  bracelets  of  hollow  metal. 
Varvara  Pavlovna,  the  only  daughter  of  Pavel 
Petrovitch  and  Kalli6j)e  Karlovna,  had  just 
passed  her  seventeenth  birthday  when  she  came 
out  of  the  *  *  *  Institute,  where  she  had  been 
considered,  if  not  the  greatest  beauty,  certaiidy 
the  cleverest  girl  and  the  best  musician,  and  where 
she  had  received  the  chiffrc;^  she  was  not  yet 
nineteen  when  Lavretzkv  beheld  her  for  the  iirst 
time. 

1  In  the  Government  Institutes  for  girls,  the  chief  prize  is 
the  Empress's  initial,  in  jewels. — Traxslator. 


8S 


XIV 

TjiE  legs  of  the  Spartan  gave  way  beneath  hhn 
wlicn  ]Mikhalevitoh  conducted  him  into  the  rather 
shabbily  furnished  drawing-room  of  the  Koro- 
l)yns,  and  presented  him  to  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  house.  But  the  feehng  of  timidity 
^liich  had  taken  possession  of  him  promptly  dis- 
appeared: in  the  (ieneral  the  kindliness  of  na- 
ture innate  in  all  Russians  was  greatly  increased 
by  that  special  sort  of  courtesy  which  is  peculiar 
to  all  besmirched  people;  the  Generaless  soon 
disappeared,  somehow;  as  for  Varvara  Pavlovna, 
she  was  so  calm  and  self-possessedly  amiable,  that 
anv  one  would  immediately  have  felt  himself  at 
home  in  her  presence;  moreover,  from  the  whole 
of  her  enchanting  person,  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
from  her  innocently-sloping  shoulders  and 
faintly-rosy  hands,  from  her  light  and,  at  the 
same  time,  rather  languid  gait,  from  the  very 
sound  of  her  voice,  which  was  low  and  sweet, — 
there  breathed  forth  an  insinuating  charm,  as 
intangible  as  a  delicate  perfimie,  a  soft  and  as 
yet  modest  intoxication,  something  which  it  is 
diliicult  to  express  in  words,  but  which  touched 
and  excited, — and,  of  course,  excited  something 
which  was  not  timidity.     Lavretzky  turned  the 

84 


A  NOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

conversation  on  tlie  theatre,  on  the  perrorinanec 
of  the  preceding  evening;  she  immechately  hegan, 
herself,  to  sjjeak  of  ^NIotehalofF,  and  did  not  con- 
fine lierself  merely  to  exclamations  and  sighs,  l)iit 
uttered  several  just  and  femininelv-l)enetratin<i' 
remarks  concerning  his  acting.  Mikiiale\itch 
alluded  to  music;  without  any  affectation  she 
seated  lierself  at  the  piano,  and  played  with  pre- 
cision several  mazurkas  l)y  Chopin,  which  had 
only  just  come  into  fashion.  The  dinner-hour 
arrived;  Lavretzky  made  a  motion  to  depart,  hut 
they  kept  him ;  at  tahle,  the  General  treated  him 
to  good  claret,  for  which  the  Generars  lackey  had 
galloped  in  a  cah  to  Depre's.  Late  at  nigiit, 
Lavretzky  returned  home,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time,  without  undressing,  his  eyes  covered  with 
his  hand,  in  dumh  enchantment.  It  seemed  to 
him,  that  only  now  had  he  come  to  understand 
why  life  was  worth  living;  all  his  hypotheses,  his 
intentions,  all  that  nonsense  and  rubhish,  van- 
ished instantaneously ;  his  whole  soul  was  merged 
in  one  sentiment,  in  one  desire,  in  the  desire  for 
happiness,  possession,  love,  the  sweet  love  of 
woman.  From  that  day  forth,  he  began  to  go 
often  to  the  Korobyns'.  Six  montlis  later,  he 
declared  himself  to  Varvara  Pavlovna,  and  of- 
fered her  his  hand.  His  proposal  was  accepted; 
the  General  had  long  since,  almost  on  the  eve  of 
his  first  visit,  incjuired  of  ^likhalevitch  how  many 
serfs  he,  Lavretzky,  had:  and  Varvara  Pavlovna 

85 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

also,  who.  (luring  the  whole  period  of  the  young 
man's  courtsliij3  and  even  at  the  moment  of  his 
declaration,  had  ])reserved  her  habitual  tranquil- 
lity and  clearness  of  soul, — Varvara  Pavlovna 
also  \\as  well  aware  that  her  lover  was  rich; 
and  Kalliope  Karlovna  said  to  herself:  "  jNIeine 
Tocliter  macht  eine  schone  Partie  " — and  bought 
herself  a  new  turban. 


XV 

So  his  proposal  was  accepted,  but  on  cei'tain  coii- 
(litioMs.  Ill  the  first  place,  Lavretzky  must  im- 
mediately leave  the  university:  who  marries  a 
student?  and  what  a  dreadful  idea, — for  a  landed 
proprietor,  ricli,  and  twenty-six  years  old,  to  take 
lessons  hke  a  school-boy!  In  the  second  ])hice, 
Varvara  Pavlovna  took  upon  herself  the  laboui- 
of  ordering  and  purchasing  tlie  trousseau,  even 
of  choosing  the  bridegroom's  gifts.  Slie  had  a 
great  deal  of  practical  sense,  much  taste,  much 
love  for  comfort,  and  a  great  knack  for  secur- 
ing for  herself  that  comfort.  This  knack  partic- 
ularly astonished  Lavretzky  when,  immediately 
after  the  wedding,  he  and  his  wife  set  out  in  a 
commodious  carriage,  whicli  she  had  bought,  for 
Lavriki.  How  everything  which  surrounded  him 
had  been  planned,  foreseen,  provided  for  by  Var- 
vara Pavlovna!  What  charming  travelling  re- 
quisites, what  fascinating  toilet-boxes  and  coffee- 
pots, made  their  appearance  in  divers  snug  nooks, 
and  how  prettily  Varvara  Pavlovna  herself  boiled 
the  coffee  in  the  mcn'nings!  But  Lavretzky  was 
not  then  in  a  mood  for  observation:  he  was  in  a 
beatific  state,  he  was  intoxicating  himself  with 

87 


A  XOIJLKMANVS  NEST 

liiippiiiess;  he  gave  liiiiiself  up  to  it  like  a 
child.  .  .  Aiul  he  was  as  innocent  as  a  child, 
that  young  .Vlcides.  Not  in  vain  did  witchery 
exhale  Ironi  the  whole  being  of  his  young  wife; 
not  in  \  ain  did  she  i)roniise  to  the  senses  the  secret 
luxury  of  unknown  delights;  she  fulfilled  more 
than  she  had  promised.  On  arriving  at  Lavriki, 
in  the  very  hottest  part  of  the  summer,  she  found 
the  house  dirty  and  dark,  the  servants  ridiculous 
and  antiquated,  but  she  did  not  find  it  necessary 
even  to  hint  at  this  to  her  husband.  If  she  had 
been  making  preparations  to  settle  down  at  La- 
vriki, she  would  have  made  o\'er  everything  about 
it,  beginning,  of  course,  with  the  house;  but  the 
idea  of  remaining  in  that  God-forsake,n  corner  of 
the  steppes  ne^'er  entered  her  mind  for  one  mo- 
ment; she  lived  in  it,  as  though  camping  out, 
gently  enduring  all  the  inconveniences  and  mak- 
ing amusing  jests  over  tliem.  ]Marfa  Timofeevna 
came  to  see  her  nursling;  Varvara  Pavlovna  took 
a  great  liking  for  her,  but  she  did  not  take  a 
liking  for  Varvara  Pavlovna.  Xeither  did  the 
new  mistress  of  the  house  get  on  well  with  Glaf  ira 
Petrovna;  she  Avould  have  left  her  in  peace,  but 
old  Korohyn  wanted  to  feather  his  nest  from  his 
son-in-law's  affairs;  "  it  was  no  shame,  even  for 
a  General,"  said  he,  "  to  manage  the  estate  of  so 
near  a  relative."  It  must  be  assumed  that  Pavel 
Petrovitch  would  not  have  disdained  to  busy  liim- 
.self  w  ith  the  estate  of  an  entire  stranger.     Var- 

88 


A  XOET.KMAX  S   XKST 

vara  Pavlovna  coiuliicted  her  attack  in  a  very  art- 
ful manner:  without  tlu-ustin^-  herself  forward, 
and  still,  to  all  a])])earances,  wholly  ahsorhed  in 
the  felicity  of  the  honeymoon,  in  (juiet  country 
life,  in  music  and  readint)-,  she  little  hy  little  drove 
Glafira  Petrovna  to  such  a  state,  thai  one  morn- 
ing the  latter  rushed  like  a  madwoman  into 
I^avretzky's  study,  and,  hurling  her  hunch  of  keys 
on  the  ta})le,  announced  that  it  was  heyond  her 
power  to  occupy  herself  with  the  h()usekeei)ing, 
and  that  she  did  not  wish  to  remain  in  the  country. 
Having  heen  properly  prepared  in  advance,  La- 
vretzky  immediately  consented  to  her  departure. 
— Glafira  Petrovna  had  not  expected  this.  "  Very 
well,"  said  she,  and  her  eyes  grew  dark, — "  I  see 
that  T  am  not  wanted  here !  T  know  who  it  is  that 
is  driving  me  hence — from  my  native  nest.  But 
do  thou  remember  my  words,  nephew :  thou  shalt 
never  be  able  to  build  thyself  a  nest  anywhere, 
thou  must  wander  all  thy  life.  That  is  my  legacy 
to  thee." — That  very  day  she  departed  to  her  own 
little  estate,  and  a  week  later  General  Korobyn 
arrived,  and  with  agreeable  melancholy  in  his 
gaze  and  movements,  took  the  management  of  the 
entire  estate  into  his  hands. 

In  September,  Varvara  Petrovna  carried  her 
husband  off  to  Petersburg.  She  spent  two  win- 
ters in  Petersburg  (they  removed  to  Tz/irskoe 
Selo  for  the  summer),  in  a  beautiful,  light,  ele- 
gantly  furnished   a])artment:   they   made   many 

80 


A  XOBLE.ArAX  S  XEST 

acquaintances  in  middle-class  and  even  in  the 
liigher  circles  of  society,  they  went  out  and  re- 
ceived a  great  deal,  and  gave  most  charming  mu- 
sical and  dancing  parties.  Varvara  Pavlovna  at- 
tracted iiuests  as  a  flame  attracts  moths.  Such  a 
dissipated  life  did  not  altogether  })lease  Feodor 
Iviinitch.  His  wife  advised  him  to  enter  the  ser- 
vice; owing  to  his  father's  old  memories,  and  his 
own  conceptions,  he  would  not  serve,  but  to  please 
his  wife  he  remained  in  Petersburg.  But  he 
speedily  divined  that  no  one  prevented  his  iso- 
lating himself,  that  it  was  not  for  nothing  that 
he  had  the  (juietest  and  most  comfortable  study 
in  all  Petersburg,  that  his  solicitous  wife  was  even 
ready  to  help  him  to  isolate  himself, — and  from 
that  time  forth  all  went  splendidly.  Once  more 
he  took  up  his  own  education,  which,  in  his  opin- 
ion, was  unfinished,  once  more  he  began  to  read, 
he  even  began  to  study  the  p]inglish  language.  It 
was  strange  to  see  his  mighty,  broad-shouldered 
figure,  eternally  bent  over  his  writing-table,  his 
full,  hairy,  ruddy  face  half  concealed  by  the  pages 
of  a  dictionary  or  an  exercise-book.  Every  morn- 
ing  he  spent  in  work,  dined  capitally  (Varvara 
Pavlovna  was  an  excellent  housewife) ,  and  in  the 
evening  he  entered  an  enchanting,  fragrant,  bril- 
liant world,  all  populated  with  young,  merry 
faces, — and  the  central  point  of  that  world  was 
also  the  zealous  hostess,  his  wife.  She  gladdened 
him  with  the  birth  of  a  son,  but  the  poor  boy  did 

90 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

not  live  long:  he  died  in  the  spiliig,  and  in  Die 
summer,  hy  the  adviee  of  the  physieians,  Jai- 
vretzky  took  his  wife  abroad,  to  the  l)atiis.  Di- 
version ^vas  indispensable  to  her,  after  sueh  a 
bereavement,  and  her  health  recjuired  a  warm 
climate.  They  spent  the  summer  and  autumn  in 
Germany  and  Switzerland,  and  in  the  winter,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  they  went  to  Paris. 
In  Paris  Varvara  Pavlovna  blossomed  out  like  a 
rose,  and  managed  to  build  a  little  nest  for  her- 
self as  promptly  and  as  adroitly  as  in  Petersburg. 
She  found  an  extremely  pretty  apartment,  in  one 
of  the  quiet  but  fashionable  Paris  streets;  she 
made  her  husband  such  a  dressing-gown  as  he  had 
never  owned  before;  she  hired  a  trim  maid,  a 
capital  cook,  a  smart  footman;  she  got  an  en- 
chanting carriage,  a  charming  little  piano.  A 
week  had  not  passed  before  she  crossed  a  street, 
wore  her  shawl,  opened  her  parasol,  and  put  on 
her  gloves  in  a  style  equal  to  that  of  the  purest- 
blooded  Parisienne.  And  she  soon  provided  her- 
self with  acquaintances.  At  first,  only  Russians 
went  to  her  house,  then  Frenchmen  began  to 
make  their  appearance,  very  amiable,  courteous, 
unmarried,  Avith  beautiful  manners  and  eui)honi- 
ous  family  names ;  they  all  talked  fast  and  much, 
bovv^ed  with  easy  grace,  and  screwed  up  their  eyes 
in  a  pleasing  way;  all  of  tliem  had  white  teetli 
which  gleamed  beneath  rosy  lips, — and  h(nv  they 
did  understand  the  art  of  smiling!   Every  one  of 

91 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

them  hroimlit  his  rrieiuls,  aiul  "  hi  belle  ]Madame 
(le  Lin  retzki  "  soon  became  known  from  the 
Chaussee  d'Antin  to  the  Rue  de  Lille.  In  those 
days  (this  took  place  in  1836),  that  tribe  of 
feuilleton  and  chronicle  writers,  which  now  swarm 
everywhere,  like  ants  in  an  ant-hill  which  has 
been  cut  open,  had  not  nmltiplied;  but  even  then, 
a  certain  M — r  Jules  presented  himself  in  Var- 
viira  Piivlovna's  salon,  a  gentleman  of  insignifi- 
cant ai)pearance,  with  a  scandalous  reputation, 
insolent  and  base,  like  all  duellists  and  beaten 
men.  This  ]M — r  Jules  was  extremely  repulsive 
to  ^''arvara  P/nlovna,  but  she  received  him  be- 
cause he  scribbled  for  various  journals,  and  inces- 
santlv  alluded  to  her,  calling  her  now  "  Mme.  de 
X/  *  *  *  tzki,"  now  "  Mine,  de  *  *  *  cette  graude 
dame  Russe  si  distlngiiee,  qui  demeure  rue  de  P." ; 
narrating  to  all  the  world,  that  is  to  say,  to  a  few 
hundred  subscribers,  who  cared  nothing  whatever 
about  "  Mme.  de  L  *  *  *  tzki,"  how  that  pretty 
and  charming  lady  was  a  real  French^^'oman  in 
mind  (ime  vraie  fraufaise  par  l' esprit), — there  is 
no  higher  encomium  for  the  French, — what  a  re- 
markable nuisician  she  was,  and  how  wonderfully 
she  waltzed  (Varvara  Pavlovna,  in  reality,  did 
waltz  in  such  a  manner  as  to  draw  all  hearts  after 
the  hem  of  her  light,  fluttering  gown)  ...  in  a 
word,  he  spread  her  fame  thi'oughout  the  world, 
— and  assuredly  that  is  agreeable,  say  what  you 
will.     Mile.  ]\Iars  had  already  left  the  stage,  and 

92 


A  NOBLKMAWS   XKST 

jMlle.  Kaclicl  liad  not  yt-t  iiiade  her  apjjcaiaiicc; 
nev^ertheless,  Varvara  Pavlovna  diliointlv  \'vv- 
quented  the  theatres.  She  went  into  eestasies 
over  Itahan  niiisie,  and  laii<^lied  at  tlie  ruins  of 
Odra,  yawned  deeorously  at  the  C'onieche  Fran- 
caise,  and  wept  at  the  acting  of  Mnie.  Dorval  in 
some  ultra-romantic  melodrama  or  other;  hul, 
chief  of  all,  Liszt  ])layed  a  couple  of  times  at  her 
house,  and  was  so  nice,  so  sim})le"-it  was  de- 
lightful! In  sucli  pleasant  sensations  jjassed  a 
winter,  at  the  end  of  which  Varv^ara  Pavlovna 
w^as  even  presented  at  Court.  Feodor  Ixtinitch, 
on  his  side,  was  not  bored,  altliough  life,  at  times, 
weighed  heavily  on  his  shoulders, — heavily,  be- 
cause it  was  empty.  He  read  the  newspa])ers,  he 
listened  to  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne  and  tlie  Col- 
lege de  France,  he  kept  track  of  the  debates  in 
parliament,  he  undertook  the  translation  of  a 
well-known  scientific  work  on  irrigation.  "  I  am 
not  wasting  time," — he  said  to  himself, — "  all 
this  is  useful;  but  next  winter  I  must,  without 
fail,  return  to  Russia  and  set  to  work."  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  say,  whether  he  was  clearly  conscious 
in  what  that  work  consisted,  and  God  knows 
whether  he  would  have  succeeded  in  returning  to 
Russia  for  the  winter, — in  the  meantime,  he  went 
with  his  wife  to  Baden-Baden.  .  .  xVn  unex- 
pected event  destroyed  all  liis  plans. 


93 


XVI 

One  day,  on  entering  A^arvara  Pavlovna's  bou- 
doir in  her  absence,  Lavretzky  beheld  on  the  floor 
a  tiny,  carefully-folded  scrap  of  paper.  He 
nieclianically  picked  it  up,  mechanically  unfolded 
it,  and  read  the  following,  written  in  French: 

"  Dear  angel  Betsy  !  ( I  cannot  possibly  bring  myself 
to  call  thee  Barbe  or  Varvsira).  I  waited  in  vain  for 
thee  at  the  corner  of  the  Boulevard ;  come  to-morrow, 
at  half-past  one,  to  our  little  apartment.  Thy  good 
fatty  (ton  gros  bonhomme  de  mari)  generally  buries 
himself  in  his  books  at  that  hour;  again  we  will  sing 
the  song  of  your  poet  Puskin  (de  voire  poete  Poiis- 
kine)  which  thou  hast  taught  me :  '  Old  husband,  men- 
acing husband ! ' — A  thousand  kisses  on  thy  hands  and 
feet !    I  await  thee." 

"  Ernest." 

Lavretzky  did  not,  on  the  instant,  understand 
what  sort  of  thing  it  was  he  had  read ;  he  perused 
it  a  second  time — and  his  head  reeled,  the  floor 
swayed  beneath  his  feet,  like  the  deck  of  a  steamer 
when  it  is  pitching — he  cried  out,  and  sobbed  and 
wept  simultaneously. 

He  lost  his  senses.     He  had  so  blindly  trusted 

94 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

his  wife,  that  the  possihility  of  (lece])ti()ii,  of 
treachery,  had  never  presented  itself  to  his  mind. 
That  Ernest,  tliat  lover  of  his  wife's  was  a  i'air- 
haired,  good-looking  hoy  of  three  and  twenty, 
with  a  small  snuh  nose  and  thin  moustache,  almost 
the  most  insignificant  of  all  her  admirers.  vSev- 
eral  minutes  passed,  half  an  hour  passed;  Lavret- 
zky  still  stood,  crushing  the  fatal  missive  in  his 
hand  and  staring  senselessly  at  the  floor;  through 
a  sort  of  dark  whirlwind,  visions  of  pale  faces 
flitted  hefore  him;  his  heart  sank  within  him,  in 
anguish;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  falling, 
falling,  falling  .  .  .  and  that  there  was  no  end 
to  it.  The  light,  familiar  rustle  of  a  silken  robe 
aroused  him  from  his  state  of  stupefaction ;  Var- 
vara  Pavlovna,  in  bonnet  and  shawl,  had  hastily 
returned  from  her  stroll.  Lavretzky  trembled  all 
over,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room ;  he  felt  that  at 
that  moment  he  was  capable  of  tearing  her  to 
pieces,  of  beating  her  until  she  was  half  dead,  in 
peasant  fashion,  of  strangling  her  M'itli  his  hands. 
The  astonished  Varvara  Pavlovna  tried  to  stop 
him;  he  coidd  only  whisper:  "  Betsy" — and  fled 
from  the  house. 

Lavretzky  took  a  carriage,  and  ordered  the 
man  to  drive  him  out  of  town.  The  entire  re- 
mainder of  the  day,  and  the  whole  night  long  until 
the  morning,  he  roamed  about,  incessantly  hail- 
ing and  wringing  his  lunids:  now  he  raged,  again 
it  seemed  rathei"  ridiculous  to  him,  even   i-athrr 

95 


A  XOIU.KMAX  S  XEST 

amusing.  In  the  inorning  he  was  chilled  through, 
antl  entered  a  wretched  suburban  inn,  asked  for 
a  room,  and  seated  himself  on  a  chair  by  the  win- 
do\\-.  A  convulsive  yawning  seized  hold  upon 
him.  lie  could  liardlv  stand  on  his  feet,  his  body 
was  exhausted, — but  he  was  conscious  of  no 
fatigue, — yet  fatigue  claimed  its  rights:  he  sat 
and  stared,  and  understood  nothing;  he  did  not 
understand  wliat  liad  happened  to  him,  why  he 
found  himself  alone,  with  benumbed  limbs,  with 
a  bitterness  in  liis  mouth,  with  a  stone  on  his 
breast,  in  a  bare,  strange  room ;  he  did  not  under- 
stand what  had  made  her,  Varya,  give  herself  to 
that  Frenchman,  and  how  she  had  been  able, 
knowing  herself  to  be  unfaithful,  to  be  as  calm, 
amiable,  and  confiding  toward  him  as  before!  "  I 
understand  nothing!  "  whispered  his  parched  lips. 
"  Who  will  guarantee  me  now,  that  in  Peters- 
burg <,..."  And  he  did  not  finish  the  question, 
and  yawned  again,  quivering  and  writhing  all 
over.  The  bright  and  the  dark  memories  tor- 
mented him  equally ;  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him, 
that  a  few  days  previously,  in  his  presence  and  in 
that  of  Ernest,  she  had  seated  herself  at  the  piano 
and  had  sung:  "  Old  husband,  menacing  hus- 
band !  "  lie  recalled  the  expression  of  her  face, 
the  strange  glitter  of  her  eyes,  and  the  flush  on 
her  cheeks, — and  he  rose  from  his  chair;  he 
wanted  to  go  and  to  sav  to  them :  "  You  have 
made  a  mistake  in  trifling  witli  me;  my  great- 

96 


A  NOBI.KMAN'S   XKST 

graiidfatlicr  used  to  liaji<4  the  ])L'a.sanl.s  up  l,y  the 
ribs,  and  my  grandfather  himself  uas  a  peasant  " 
—and  kill  them  both.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  it 
seemed  to  him,  that  everything  whieh  was  taking 
place  with  him  was  a  dream,and  not  even  a  dieaiii, 
but  merely  some  nonsense  or  other:  that  all  he 
had  to  do  Avas  to  shake  liimself,  to  look  about 
him.  .  .  .  He  did  look  about  him,  and  as  the 
hawk  buries  his  claws  in  the  bird  he  has  captured, 
anguish  pierced  more  and  more  deeply  into  his 
heart.  To  crown  all,  Lavretzky  Mas  hoping  at 
the  end  of  a  few  months  to  become  a  father.  .  . 
The  past,  the  future,  his  whole  life  was  poisoned. 
He  returned,  at  last,  to  Paris,  put  up  at  a  hotel, 
and  sent  \^arvara  Pavlovna  the  note  of  M — r 
Ernest,  with  the  following  letter: 

"  The  accompanying  document  will  explain  cvcrytliinn; 
to  you.  I  will  say  to  you,  by  the  way,  that  I  did  not 
recognise  you:  you,  always  such  a  precise  person,  to 
drop  such  an  important  paper !  "  ( This  phrase  poor  La- 
vretzky had  prepared  and  cherished  for  the  space  of  sev- 
eral hours.)  "  I  can  see  you  no  more;  I  assume  that  you, 
also,  cannot  wish  to  meet  mo.  I  have  assigned  fifteen 
thousand  francs  a  3'car  to  you ;  I  cannot  give  more. 
Send  your  address  to  the  office  of  the  estate.  Do  wliat 
you  will,  live  where  you  please.  I  wish  you  happiness. 
No  answer  is  necessary," 

Lavretzky  wrote  to  his  wife,  that  no  answer 
was  necessary  .  .  .  but  he  waited,  he  thirsted  for 

97 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

an  answer,  an  explanation  of  this  incomprehensi 
l)le,   this   incredible   affair.      Varvara   Pavlovna, 
that  very  day,  sent  him  a  long  letter  in  French. 
It  made  an  end  of  him;  his  last  doubts  vanished, 
—and  he  felt  ashamed  that  he  had  still  cherished 
doubts.     Varvara  Pavlovna  did  not  defend  her- 
self: she  merely  wished  to  see  him,  she  entreated 
him  not  to  condemn  her  irrevocably.     The  letter 
was  cold  and  constrained,  although  the  traces  of 
tears  were  visible  here  and  there.     Lavretzky  ut- 
tered a  bitter  laugh,  and  bade  the  messenger  say 
that  it  was  all  very  good.     Three  days  later,  he 
had  quitted  Paris:  but  he  went,  not  to  Russia,  but 
to  Italy.     He  himself  did  not  know  why  he  had 
chosen  Italy,  in  particular;  in  reality,  it  made  no 
difference  to  him  whither  he  went, — provided  it 
were  not  home.    He  sent  instructions  to  his  peas- 
ant-steward in  regard  to  his  wife's  pension,  or- 
dered him,  at  the  same  time,  to  take  all  matters 
pertaining  to  the  estate  instantly  out  of  the  hands 
of  General  Korobyn,  without  awaiting  the  sur- 
render of  the  accounts,  and  to  make  arrangements 
for  the  departure  of  His  Excellency  from  La- 
\  riki;  he  formed  a  vivid  picture  to  himself,  of  the 
consternation,   the   fruitless  haughtiness   of  the 
ejected  General,  and,  with  all  his  grief,  he  felt  a 
certain  malicious  satisfaction.     Then  he  invited 
(xlafira  Petrovna,  in  a  letter  also,  to  return  to 
I^avriki,    and    sent    her    a    power    of    attorney. 
Glafira    Petrovna    did    not    return    to    Lavriki, 

98 


A  NOIU.EMAX  S  XEST 

and  herself  published  in  Ihe  iie\vsi)a])ei's  that 
she  had  destroyed  the  power  of  attorney,  whieh 
was  quite  superfluous.  Ilidin*^-  himself  in  a  small 
Italian  town,  it  was  a  long  time  still  before  La- 
vretzky  could  foi-ee  himself  not  to  watch  his 
wife.  He  learned  from  the  newspa])ers,  that  she 
had  quitted  Paris,  as  it  was  supposed,  foi-  Haden- 
Baden :  her  name  soon  made  its  ap])earance  in  an 
article  written  by  that  same  M'sieu  Jules.  In 
this  article,  a  sort  of  friendly  condolence  i)iereed 
through  the  customary  playfulness;  Feodor 
Ivanitch's  soul  was  in  a  very  ugly  state  when  he 
read  that  article.  Later  on,  he  learned  that  a 
daughter  had  been  born  to  him;  at  the  end  of  a 
couple  of  months,  he  was  informed  by  his  peasant- 
steward,  that  Varvara  Pavlo\'na  had  demanded 
the  first  third  of  her  allowance.  Then  more  and 
more  evil  reports  began  to  arrive ;  at  last,  a  tragi- 
comic tale  made  the  rounds — creating  a  sensa- 
tion— of  the  newspapers,  wherein  his  wife  played 
an  unenviable  part.  All  was  at  an  end :  Varvai-a 
Pavlovna  had  become  "  a  celebrity." 

Lavretzky  ceased  to  follow  her  career;  but  he 
was  not  able  speedily  to  concjuer  himself.  At 
times,  he  was  seized  with  such  a  longing  for  his 
wife,  that  it  seemed  to  him,  he  would  give  every- 
thing— he  would  even,  if  necessary  .  .  .  forgive 
her — if  only  he  might  again  hear  her  caressing 
voice,  again  feel  her  hand  in  his  hand.  But  time 
went  on,  and  not  in  \ain.     He  was  not  l)orn  to 

99 


A  XOET.EMAX'S  XEST 

be  a  martyr:  liis  healthy  nature  asserted  its  rights. 
Much  became  clear  to  him:  the  very  blow  which 
had  assailed  him,  no  longer  seemed  to  him  un- 
foreseen :  he  understood  his  wife, — one  under- 
stands a  person  who  is  near  to  one,  when  parted 
from  him.  Again  he  was  able  to  occupy  himself, 
to  work,  altliough  with  far  less  zeal  than  of  yore: 
scepticism,  for  wliicli  the  way  had  been  prepared 
by  the  experiences  of  life,  by  his  education,  defin- 
itively took  possession  of  his  soul.  He  became 
extremely  indifferent  to  everything.  Four  years 
ela])sed,  and  he  felt  liimself  strong  enough  to  re- 
turn to  his  native  land,  to  meet  his  own  people. 
Without  halting  either  in  Petersburg  or  INIoscow, 
he  arrived  in  the  town  of  O  *  *  *  where  we  took 
leave  of  him,  and  whither  we  now  beg  the  indul- 
gent reader  to  return  with  us. 


TOO 


XVII 

On  the  morning  following  the  day  which  we 
have  described,  at  nine  o'clock,  Lavretzky  as- 
cended the  porch  of  tlic  Kalitin  house.  Li/a 
emerged  to  meet  him,  in  hat  and  gloves. 

"  Where  are  j'ou  going?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  To  church.     To-day  is  Sunday." 

"  And  do  you  really  care  to  go  to  the  IJturgy?" 

Liza  said  nothing,  but  gazed  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Pardon  me,  please," — said  Lavretzky, — 
"  I  ...  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that.  I  came  to 
say  good-bye  to  you:  I  am  going  to  my  country 
place  an  hour  hence." 

"  It  is  not  far  from  here,  is  it?  " — inquired 
Liza. 

"  Twenty-five  versts." 

Lyenotchka  made  her  appearance  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  accompanied  by  a  maid. 

"  See  that  you  do  not  forget  us," — said  Liza, 
and  descended  the  steps. 

"  And  do  not  you  forget  me.  And  see  here," — 
he  added, — "you  are  going  to  church:  pray  for 
me  also,  by  the  way-" 

Liza  paused  and  turned  toward  him. 

"  Certainly," — she  said,  looking  him  straight  in 

101 


A  NOHLEMAN'S  NEST 

tlic  lace:    - '  1  Nvill  pray  for  you.     Come  along, 
liVciiotchka/' 

Lavrctzkv  found  Marva  Dniitrievna  alone  in 
the  (ll•a^ving-room.  An  odour  of  eau  de  cologne 
and  mint  emanated  from  her.  She  had  a  head- 
ache, according  to  lier  own  account,  and  she  liad 
passed  a  restless  night.  She  welcomed  him  with 
her  customary  languid  amiability,  and  gradually 
got  to  talking. 

"  \Vhat  an  agreeable  young  man  Vladimir 
Xikolaitch  is,"  she  inquired: — "is  he  not?" 

''  What  Vladimir  Xikolaitch?  " 

"  Why,  Panshin,  you  know, — the  one  who  was 
here  yesterday  evening.  He  took  an  immense 
liking  to  you;  I  will  tell  you,  as  a  secret,  mo?2  cher 
cousin,  he  is  simply  beside  himself  over  my  Liza. 
AVhat  do  you  think  of  that?  He  comes  of  a  good 
family,  he  discluirges  his  service  splendidly,  he 
is  clever,  well,  and  a  Junior  Gentleman  of  the 
Bedchamber,  and  if  it  be  God's  will  ....  I,  on 
my  side,  as  a  mother,  shall  be  very  glad.  It  is  a 
great  responsibility,  of  course:  up  to  the  ]3resent 
time,  whether  it  be  for  good  or  evil,  you  see,  I 
am  alwavs,  everywhere,  entirely  alone:  I  have 
reared  my  children,  I  have  taught  them,  I  have 
done  everything  ....  and  now  I  have  ordered 
a  governess  from  jNIme.  Bolius " 

Miirya  Dmitrievna  launched  out  into  a  de- 
scription of  her  toils,  her  efforts,  and  her  ma- 
ternal feelings.     Lavretzky  listened  to  her  in  si- 

102 


A  NOBLKxMAX  S  NKST 

lence,  and  twirled  his  hat  in  his  hands.  His  cohl. 
heavy  gaze  (hsconcerted  the  loquacious  lady. 

"And  how  do  you  like  I.iza?  "^ — she  asked. 

"  I^izaveta  INlikhailovna  is  an  extremely  heau- 
tiful  girl," — replied  Lavretzky,  rose,  l)owe(l,  and 
went  to  INIarfa  Tiniof eevna.  INIarya  Diiiitrievna 
gazed  after  him  with  displeasure,  and  said  to 
herself;  "What  a  dolt,  what  a  peasant!  Well, 
now  1  understand  why  his  wife  could  not  remain 
faithful  to  liim." 

INlarfa  Timofeevna  was  sitting  in  her  own 
room,  surrounded  by  her  suite.  It  consisted  of 
five  beings,  almost  e(]ually  near  to  her  heart:  a  fat- 
jowled  trained  bulliincli,  which  she  loved  because 
he  had  ceased  to  whistle  and  draw  water;  a  tiny, 
very  timorous  and  peaceable  dog,  Roska;  an  an- 
gry cat  jMatros  (Sailor)  ;  a  black-visaged  nimble 
little  girl  of  nine,  with  huge  eyes  and  a  sliarp 
little  nose,  who  was  named  Schiirotchka;  and  an 
elderly  woman,  fifty  years  of  age,  in  a  white 
cap,  and  a  light  brown,  bob-tailed  jacket  over  a 
dark  gown,  by  name  Nastasya  Kiirpovna  Ogar- 
kofF.  Schiirotchka  was  of  the  petty  burgher 
class,  a  full  orphan.  JNLirfa  Timofeevna  had 
taken  charge  of  her  out  of  pity,  as  she  had  of 
Roska:  she  had  picked  up  both  the  dog  and  the 
girl  in  the  street;  both  were  thin  and  hungry,  both 
were  beins;  drenched  bv  tlie  autumnal  rain,  no 
one  had  hunted  u])  Roska,  and  Schiirotchka's 
uncle,  a  drunken  shoeniakei-,  wlio  had  not  enough 

103 


A  XOBI.KMAX'S  NEST 

to  eat  himself,  and  who  (hd  not  feed  his  niece» 
thouo-h  he  l)eat  her  over  the  head  with  his  last, 
iiladlv  surrendered  her  to  ^larfa  Timofeevna. 
With  \astasya  Karpovna,  Marfa  Timofeevna 
had  made  aequaintanee  on  a  pilgrimage,  in  a 
monastery;  she  herself  had  gone  up  to  her  in 
ehureh  (Marfa  Timofeevna  liked  her  because,  to 
use  her  own  words,  "she  prayed  tastily"),  had 
herself  begun  the  conversation,  and  had  invited 
her  to  come  to  her  for  a  cup  of  tea.  From  that 
day  forth,  she  had  never  parted  with  her.  Xasta- 
sya  Karpovna  was  a  woman  of  the  merriest  and 
gentlest  disposition,  a  childless  widow,  member 
of  a  po\'erty-stricken  family  of  the  petty  no- 
bility; she  had  a  round,  grey  head,  soft  white 
hands,  a  soft  face,  with  large,  kindly  features,  and 
a  rather  ridiculous  snub  nose;  she  fairly"  wor- 
shipped ]\rarfa  Timofeevna,  and  the  latter  loved 
her  greatly,  although  she  jeered  at  her  tender 
heart:  Xastiisya  Karpovna  felt  a  weakness  for  all 
young  people,  and  involuntarily  blushed  like  a 
girl  at  the  most  innocent  jest.  Her  entire  capital 
consisted  of  twelve  hundred  paper  rubles;  she 
lived  at  the  expense  of  INIarfa  Timofeevna,  but  on 
e(jual  terms  with  her:  Marfa  Timofeevna  woidd 
not  have  tolerated  servility. 

"  Ah,  Fedya!  "  she  began,  as  soon  as  she  caught 
sight  of  him: — "  last  night,  thou  didst  not  see  my 
family:  admire  it.  We  are  all  assembled  for  tea: 
this  is  our  second,  feast-dav  tea.     Thou  mayest 

•  * 

104 


A  NOHLKMAWS   XKST 

pet  all:  only  Schiirotdika  will  not  allow  tlicr,  and 
the  cat  scratches.    Art  thou  ^oiii'^'  away  to-day^  " 

"  Ves," — Lavretzky  seated  hiinsell'  on  a  nai- 
row  little  chair. — "  I  have  already  said  I'arewell 
to  Marya  Dmitrievna.  I  have  also  seen  Lizaveta 
jNIikhailovna." 

"  Call  her  Liza,  my  father, — why  should  she  he 
ISIikhailovna  to  thee!  And  sit  still,  or  thou  wilt 
hreak  Schurotehka's  chair." 

"  She  has  gone  to  church," — pursued  La- 
vretzky.     "  Is  she  pious?  " 

"  Yes,  Fedya, — very.  More  than  thou  and  I, 
P^edya." 

"  But  are  not  you  pious?" — remarked  Xastji- 
sya  Karpovna,  in  a  whisper.  "  And  to-day:  you 
did  not  get  to  the  early  Liturgy,  but  you  will  go 
to  the  later  one." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it — thou  wilt  go  alone:  1  am 
lazy,  my  mother," — retorted  iNIarfa  Timofeevna, 
— "  I  am  pampering  myself  greatly  with  my 
tea."^ — She  called  Nastasya  thoUj  although  she 
lived  on  equal  terms  with  her, — she  was  not  a 
PestofF  for  nothing:  three  PestofFs  are  recorded 
w  ith  distinction  in  the  Book  of  Remembrance  of 
Ivan  Vasilievitch,  the  Terrible;'  3Iarfa  Timo- 
feevna kne^v  it. 

'  Ivan  the  Terrible  left  a  long  record  of  his  distinguished  vietinis, 
for  the  repose  of  whose  souls  he  ordered  prayers  to  he  said  in  j)er- 
petuity-  "Book  of  Renienihranee "  contains  the  names  of  per- 
sons who  are  to  be  prayed  for  at  the  general  requiem  services,  and 
so  forth. — -Translator. 

105 


A  xoblp:man  s  nest 

*'  Tell  inc.  please," — began  Lavretzky  again  :— 
"  Miirya  Dniitrievna  has  just  been  talking  about 
tiiat  ....  what  \s  liis  name  ....  Panshin.    What 
sort  of  a  person  is  he?  " 

'*  \Vhat  a  ehatterbox,  the  Lord  forgive  her!" 
— grumbled  ^larfa  Timofeevna: — "  I  suppose 
she  imparted  to  you,  as  a  secret,  what  a  fine  suitor 
lias  turned  up.  She  might  do  her  whispering  with 
her  priest's  son;  but  no,  that  is  not  enough  for 
her.  But  there  's  nothing  in  it,  as  yet,  and  thank 
God  for  that!  but  she  \s  babbling  already." 

"  Why  '  thank  God  '  ?  "—asked  Lavretzky. 

"  Why,  because  the  young  fellow  does  not 
j)lease  me;  and  what  is  there  to  rejoice  about?  " 

"  lie  does  not  please  you?  " 

"  Yes,  he  cannot  fascinate  everybody.  It 's 
enough  that  Nastasya  l\ar[)ovna  here  should  be 
in  love  with  him." 

The  poor  widow  was  thoroughly  startled. 

"  AVhat  makes  vou  say  that,  iNIarfa  Timo- 
feevna?  You  do  not  fear  (iod!  " — she  exclaimed, 
and  a  blush  instantly  suffused  her  face  and 
neck. 

"  And  he  certainly  knows  the  rogue," — JMarfa 
Timofeevna  interrupted  her: — "  he  knows  how  to 
ca])tivate  her:  he  presented  her  with  a  snufF-box. 
Fedya,  ask  her  to  give  thee  a  pinch  of  snuff;  thou 
wilt  see  what  a  splendid  snuff-box  it  is:  on  the 
lid  is  depicted  a  hussar  on  horseback.  Thou  hadst 
better  not  defend  thyself,  my  mother." 

106 


A  XOin.KMAX'S  XKST 

Nastasya  Karpovna  merely  repelled  the  sug- 
gestion with  a  wave  of  her  hands. 

"  Well,"— inquired  J.avret/ky,  '' and  is  Liza 
not  indifferent  to  him?  " 

"  Apparently,  she  likes  him,— however,  the 
Lord  only  knows.  Another  man's  soul,  tliou 
knowest,  is  a  dark  forest,  much  more  the  soul  ol' 
a  young  girl.  Now,  there  's  Schurotehka's  soul- 
try  to  dissect  that !  AVhy  has  she  been  hidiuo-  her- 
self,  and  yet  does  not  go  away,  ever  since  thou 
earnest?  " 

Schiirotchka  snorted  with  suj)pressed  laughter 
and  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  Lavretzky  rose  from 
his  seat. 

"Yes," — he  said  slowly: — "a  maiden's  soul 
is  not  to  be  divined." 

He  began  to  take  leave. 

"Well?  Shall  we  see  thee  again  soon?" — 
asked  ]Marfa  Timofeevna. 

"  That 's  as  it  may  happen,  aunty;  it  is  not  far 
off." 

"  Yes,  but  thou  art  going  to  Vasilievskoe. 
Thou  wilt  not  live  at  Lavriki: — well,  that  is 
thy  affair;  only,  go  and  salute  the  tomb  of  thy 
mother,  and  the  tomb  of  thy  grandmother  too.  l)y 
the  bye.  Thou  hast  acquired  all  sorts  of  learning 
yonder  abroad,  and  who  knows,  perchance  they 
Avill  feel  it  in  their  graves  that  thou  hast  come  to 
them.  And  don't  forget,  Fedya,  to  have  a  le- 
quiem   service  celebrated   for  Glafi'ra   Petrovna 

107 


A  XOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

also ;  here  's  a  silver  ruble  for  thee.  Take  it,  take 
it,  I  want  to  pay  for  having  a  requiem  service  for 
her.  During  her  lifetime  I  did  not  hke  her,  but 
there  's  no  denying  it,  the  woman  had  plenty  of 
character.  She  was  a  clever  creature;  and  she 
did  not  wrong  thee,  either.  And  now  go,  with 
God's  blessing,  or  thou  wilt  grow  weary  of  me." 

And  ]Marfa  Timofeevna  embraced  her  nephew. 

"  And  Liza  shall  not  marry  Panshin, — don't 
worry  about  that ;  that 's  not  the  sort  of  husband 
she  deserves." 

"  Why,  I  am  not  worrying  in  the  least,"  replied 
Ijavretzkv,  and  withdrew. 


108 


XVIII 

Four  hours  later,  he  was  driving  homeward.  Ills 
tarantas  rolled  swiftly  along  the  soft  countiy 
road.  There  had  heen  a  drought  for  a  fortnight; 
a  thin  milkj^  cloud  was  diffused  through  the  air, 
and  veiled  the  distant  forests;  it  reeked  with  tlie 
odour  of  hurning.  A  multitude  of  small,  dark 
cloudlets,  with  indistinctly  delineated  edges,  were 
creeping  across  the  pale-hlue  sky;  a  fairly  strong 
wind  was  whisking  along  in  a  dry,  uninterrupted 
stream,  without  dispelling  the  sultriness.  Lean- 
ing his  head  against  a  cushion,  and  folding 
his  arms  on  his  hreast,  Lavretzky  gazed  at  the 
strips  of  ploughed  land,  in  fan-shape,  which  Hew 
past,  at  the  willow-trees  slowly  flitting  hy,  at  tlie 
stupid  crows  and  daws  gazing  with  dull  suspicion 
askance  at  the  passing  equipage,  at  the  long  strips 
of  turf  between  the  cultivated  sections,  overgrown 
with  artemisia,  wormwood,  and  wild  tansy;  lie 
gazed  ....  and  that  fresh,  fertile  nakedness 
and  wildness  of  the  steppe,  that  verdure,  those 
long  hillocks,  the  ravines  with  stubby  oak  ])uslies, 
the  grey  hamlets,  the  flexible  birch-trees, — this 
whole  Russian  picture,  which  he  had  not  seen  for 
a  long  time,  wafted  into  his  soul  sweet  and,  at 

109 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

the  same  time,  painful  sensations,  weighed  on  his 
hreast  with  a  certain  agreeable  oppression.  His 
thoughts  slowly  roved  about;  their  outlines  were 
as  indistinet  and  confused  as  the  outlines  of  those 
loftv  cloudlets,  which,  also,  seemed  to  be  roving. 
He  recalled  his  childhood,  his  mother;  he  remem- 
bered how  she  died,  how  they  had  carried  him  to 
her,  and  how  she,  pressing  his  head  to  her  bosom, 
had  begun  to  sing  feebly  over  him,  but  had  cast 
a  glance  at  Glafira  Petrovna — and  had  relapsed 
into  silence.  He  recalled  his  father,  at  first  alert, 
dissatisfied  Avith  every  one,  and  with  a  brazen 
voice, — then  blind,  tearful,  and  with  a  dirty  grey 
beard;  he  recalled  how,  one  day,  at  table,  after 
drinking  an  extra  glass  of  wine,  and  spilling  the 
sauce  over  his  napkin,  he  had  suddenly  burst  out 
laughing,  and  had  begun,  winking  his  sightless 
eyes  and  flushing  crimson,  to  tell  stories  of  his 
conquests;  he  recalled  Varvara  Pavlovna, — and 
involuntarily  screwed  up  his  eyes,  as  a  man  does 
from  momentary  inward  pain,  and  shook  his 
head.  Then  his  thoughts  came  to  a  pause  on 
Liza. 

"  Here,"  he  thought,  "  is  a  new  being,  who 
is  only  just  entering  upon  life.  A  splendid 
young  girl,  what  will  become  of  her?  She  is 
comely.  A  pale,  fresh  face,  such  serious  eyes 
and  lijjs,  and  an  honest  and  innocent  gaze.  It  is 
a  pity  that  she  seems  to  be  somewhat  enthusiastic. 
A  splendid  figure,  and  she  walks  so  lightly,  and 

110 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

her  voice  is  soft.  I  greatly  like  to  see  liei-  j)aiise 
suddenly,  listen  attentively,  without  a  smile,  and 
then  meditate,  and  toss  baek  her  liair.  Keally, 
it  strikes  nie  that  Panshin  is  not  worthy  of  her. 
But  what  is  there  wi-ong  about  hiniC  Slie  will 
traverse  the  road  whieh  all  traverse.  1  had  better 
take  a  nap."     And  Lavretzky  closed  his  eyes. 

He  coidd  not  get  to  sleep,  but  plunged  into  the 
dreamy  stupor  of  the  road.  Images  of  the  past, 
as  before,  arose  in  leisurely  fashion,  floated 
through  his  soul,  mingling  and  entangling  them- 
selves with  other  scenes.  I^avretzky,  God  knows 
why,  began  to  think  about  Robert  Peel  .  .  . 
about  French  history  .  .  .  about  how  he  would 
win  a  battle  if  he  were  a  general;  he  thought  he 
heard  shots  and  shrieks.  .  .  His  head  sank  to  one 
side,  he  opened  his  eyes.  .  .  The  same  fields,  the 
same  view-s  of  the  steppe;  the  polished  shoes  of 
the  trace-horse  flashed  in  turn  through  the  billow- 
ing dust;  the  shirt  of  the  postilion,  yellow,  with 
red  gussets  at  the  armpits,  puffed  out  in  the 
wind.  ...  "A  pretty  way  to  return  to  my  na- 
tive land  " — flashed  through  Lavretzky's  head ; 
and  he  shouted:  "  Faster!  "  wrapped  himself  up 
in  his  cloak,  and  leaned  back  harder  against  liis 
pillow.  The  tarantas  gave  a  jolt:  liavretzky  sat 
upright,  and  opened  his  eyes  wide.  Before  liim, 
on  a  hillock,  a  tiny  hamlet  lay  outspread;  a 
little  to  the  right,  a  small,  ancient  manor-house 
was  to  be  seen,  with  closed  shutters  and  a  crooked 

111 


A  XOHLEMAX  S   XEST 

porch;  all  over  the  spacious  yard,  from  the  very 
gates,  grew  nettles,  green  and  thick  as  hemp; 
tliere,  also,  stood  a  small  oaken  store-house,  still 
sound.    This  was  Vasilievskoe. 

The    postilion    turned    up    to    the    gate,    and 
brought  the  horses  to  a  standstill;  I^avretzky's 
footman  rose  on  the  box,  and,  as  though  prepar- 
ing to  spring  down,  shouted:  "  Hey!  "  A  hoarse, 
dull   barking  rang  out,   but   not  even   the   dog 
showed  himself;   the   lackey   again   prepared   to 
leap  down,  and  again  shouted:  "  Hey!  "   The  de- 
crejjit  barking  was  renewed,  and,  a  moment  later, 
a  man  ran  out  into  the  yard,  no  one  could  tell 
M-hence, — a  man  in  a  nankeen  kaftan,  with  a  head 
as  white  as  snow;  shielding  his  ej^es  with  his  hand, 
he  stared  at  the  tarantas,  suddenly  slapped  him- 
self on  both  thighs,  at  first  danced  about  a  little 
on  one  spot,  then  ran  to  open  the  gate.     The  ta- 
rantas drove  into  the  yard,  the  wheels  rustling 
against  the  nettles,  and  halted  in  front  of  the 
porch.     The  white-headed  man,  very  nimble,  to 
all  appearances,  was  already  standing,  with  his 
feet  planted  \'ery  wide  apart  and  very  crooked, 
on   the   last   step;    and    having   unbuttoned    the 
ai)ron,  convulsively  held  uj)  the  leather  and  aided 
the  master  to  descend  to  the  earth,  and  then  kissed 
his  hand. 

"  Good-day,  good-day,  brother,"— said  La- 
vretzky,— "  I  think  thy  name  is  Anton?  Thou 
art  still  alive?" 

112 


A  NORLEMAX'S  XKST 

The  old  man  bowed  in  silence,  and  ran  to  fetch 
the  keys.  While  he  was  gone,  the  postilion  sat 
motionless,  bending  sideways  and  ga/ing  at  the 
locked  door;  bnt  Lavretzky's  lackey  remained 
standing  as  he  had  s])rnng  down,  in  a  pictiirescnu' 
pose,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the  box.  Tlic  old 
man  brought  the  keys,  and  quite  unnecessarily 
writhing  like  a  serpent,  raising  his  elbows  on 
liigh,  he  unlocked  the  door,  stepped  aside,  and 
again  bowed  to  his  girdle. 

"  Here  I  am  at  home,  here  I  have  got  back," — 
said  Lavretzky  to  himself,  as  he  entered  the  tiny 
anteroom,  while  the  shutters  were  opened,  one 
after  the  other,  with  a  bang  and  a  squeak,  and 
the  daylight  penetrated  into  the  deserted  rooms. 


113 


XIX 

The  liny  house  where  Lavretzky  had  arrived, 
and  ^vhere,  two  years  previously,  Glafira  Pe- 
trovna  had  breathed  her  last,  had  been  built  in 
the  previous  century,  out  of  sturdy  pine  lumber; 
in  apjiearance  it  was  decrepit,  but  was  capable 
of  stan(hn<>-  another  fifty  years  or  more.  La- 
vretzivy  made  the  round  of  all  the  rooms,  and,  to 
the  great  discomfiture  of  the  aged,  languid  flies, 
with  white  dust  on  their  backs,  who  were  sitting 
motionless  under  the  lintels  of  the  doors,  he  or- 
dered all  the  windows  to  be  opened;  no  one  had 
opened  them  since  the  death  of  Glafira  Petrovna. 
Kvervtliing  in  the  house  remained  as  it  had  been: 
the  small,  si)indle-legged  couches  in  the  draw'ing- 
room,  covered  \\  ith  glossy  grey  material,  worn 
through  and  flattened  down,  vividly  recalled  the 
days  of  Katlierine  II;  in  the  drawnng-room,  also, 
stood  the  mistress's  favourite  chair,  with  a  tall, 
straight  back,  against  wiiich,  even  in  her  old  age, 
she  had  not  leaned.  On  the  principal  wall  hung 
an  ancient  portrait  of  Feodor's  great-grand- 
father, iVndrei  Lavretzky;  the  dark,  sallow  face 
was  barely  discernible  against  the  war])ed  and 
blackened  background;   tlie   small,   vicious  eyes 

114 


A  NOIU.K^IAX'S  NEST 

gazed  surlily  from  bcncatii  pendent,  swoIIlii  lids; 
the  blaek  hair,  devoid  of  powder,  rose  in  a  hrush 
over  the  heavy,  deeply-seamed  brow.  On  the 
corner  of  the  portrait  hung  a  wreath  of  (hisly 
immortelles.  "  Glafira  Petrovna  herself  was 
pleased  to  weave  it,"  announced  Anton.  In  tlie 
bedchamber  rose  a  narrow  bed,  under  a  tester 
of  ancient,  striped  material,  of  very  excellent 
quality;  a  mountain  of  faded  pillows,  and  a  thin 
quilted  coverlet,  lay  on  the  bed,  and  by  the  head 
of  the  bed  hung  an  image  of  the  Presentation 
in  the  Temple  of  the  All-Holy  15irthgiver  of 
God,  the  very  same  image  to  which  the  old 
spinster,  as  she  lay  dying  alone  and  forgotten 
by  every  one,  had  pressed  for  the  last  time,  her 
lips  which  were  already  growing  cold.  The 
toilet-table,  of  inlaid  wood  with  brass  trimmings 
and  a  crooked  mirror  with  tarnished  gilding, 
stood  by  the  window.  Alongside  the  bedroom 
was  the  room  for  the  holy  pictures,  a  tiny  cham- 
ber, with  bare  walls  and  a  heavy  shrine  of  images 
in  the  corner ;  on  the  floor  lay  a  small,  threadbare 
rug,  spotted  with  w^ax;  Glafira  Petrovna  had 
been  wont  to  make  her  prostrations  upon  it. 
Anton  went  off  with  Lavretzky's  lackey  to  open 
the  stable  and  carriage-house;  in  his  stead,  there 
presented  herself  an  old  woman,  almost  of  the 
same  age  as  he,  with  a  kerchief  bound  round  her 
head,  down  to  her  very  brows;  her  head  trembled, 
and  her  eyes  gazed  dully,  but  expressed  zeal,  and 

115 


A   XOHLKMAN'S  XEST 

11  long-cstahlishcd  liabit  of  serving  with  assiduity, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  a  certain  respectful  com- 
miseration. She  kissed  Lavretzky's  liand,  and 
})aused  at  the  door,  in  anticipation  of  orders.  He 
positi\ely  was  unable  to  recall  her  name;  he  could 
not  even  remember  whether  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
It  turned  out  tliat  her  name  was  Apraxyeya; 
ff)rty  years  before,  that  same  Glafira  Petrovna 
had  banished  her  from  the  manor-house  service, 
and  had  ordered  her  to  attend  to  the  fowls;  how- 
ever, she  said  Httle, — as  though  she  had  outlived 
her  mind, — and  only  looked  on  cringingly.  In 
addition  to  tliese  two  old  people,  and  three  pot- 
bellied brats  in  long  shirts,  Anton's  great-grand- 
children, there  dwelt  in  tlie  service-rooms  of  the 
manor  a  one-armed  little  old  peasant,  who  was 
exem])t  fi'(^m  compulsory  service;  he  made  a 
drumming  noise  like  a  woodcock  when  he  spoke, 
and  was  not  capable  of  doing  anything.  Not 
much  more  iiseful  than  he  was  the  decrepit  dog, 
who  had  welcomed  Lavretzky's  home-coming 
with  his  bark:  it  liad  already  been  fastened  up  for 
ten  years  with  a  heavy  chain,  bought  by  order  of 
Glafira  Petrovna,  and  was  barely  in  a  condition 
to  move  and  drag  its  burden.  After  inspecting 
the  house,  Lavretzky  went  out  into  the  park, 
and  was  satisfied  with  it.  It  was  all  overgrown 
M'ith  tall  grass,  burdock,  and  gooseberry  and  rasp- 
])erry  bushes;  but  there  was  much  shade  in  it: 
tliere  were  many  old  linden-trees,  which  surprised 

llC) 


A  NOBLE^FAX'S  XKS T 

the  beholder  by  their  liuge  si/c  and  tlu-  strange 
arrangement  of  tlieir  ])ran('lie.s;  they  had  btiri  too 
closely  planted,  and  at  some  time  or  otbrr  a 
hundred  years  before — had  l)een  pollaided.  Tlie 
park  ended  in  a  small,  clear  pond,  with  a  liin 
of  tall,  reddish  reeds.  The  traces  of  human  hie 
fade  awav  very  nuicklv:  Glafira  Petnn  na\s  farm 
had  not  succeeded  in  running  wild,  ])ut  it  already 
seemed  plunged  in  that  tranquil  dream  where- 
with everything  on  earth  doth  dream,  where  the 
restless  infection  of  people  does  not  exist.  Feo- 
dor  Ivanitch  also  strolled  through  the  village;  tlie 
women  stared  at  him  from  the  thresholds  of  tlieir 
cottages,  each  with  her  cheek  propped  on  one 
hand;  the  peasant  men  saluted  liim  from  afar;  the 
children  ran  away;  the  dogs  barked  indifferently. 
At  last  he  felt  hungry,  but  he  did  not  expect  his 
servants  and  cook  until  toward  evening;  the  cart 
with  provisions  from  I^avriki  had  not  yet  arrived, 
— he  was  compelled  to  appeal  to  Anton.  ^Vnton 
immediately  arranged  matters:  he  cauglit  an  old 
hen,  cut  its  throat,  and  plucked  it;  Apraxyeya 
rubbed  and  scrubbed  it  for  a  long  time,  and 
washed  it,  like  linen,  before  she  placed  it  in  the 
stew-pan;  when,  at  last,  it  ^vas  cooked,  ^Vnton  ])nl 
on  the  table-cloth  and  set  the  table,  ]daced  in 
front  of  the  plate  a  blackened  salt-cellar  of  plated 
ware  on  three  feet,  and  a  small  faceted  carafe 
with  a  round  glass  stopper  and  a  narrow  neck; 
then  he  announced  to  T.avretzky,  in  a  chanting 

117 


A  XOBl.EMAX  S  NEST 

voice,  that  the  meal  was  ready, — and  took  up  his 
post  behind  his  eliair,  having  wound  a  napkin 
around  his  right  fist,  and  disseminating  some 
strong,  ancient  odour,  which  resembled  the  odour 
of  cypress  wood.  I^avretzky  tasted  the  soup,  and 
came  u])on  the  hen;  its  skin  was  all  covered  with 
big  pimples,  a  thick  tendon  ran  down  each  leg,  its 
flesh  had  a  flavour  of  charcoal  and  lye.  When  he 
had  finished  his  dinner,  Lavretzky  said  that  he 

would  like  some  tea,  if "  This  very  moment, 

sir,  I  will  serve  it,  sir," — interrupted  the  old  man, 
—and  he  kept  his  promise.  A  pinch  of  tea  was 
hunted  up,  wrapped  in  a  scrap  of  red  paper,  a 
small  but  very  mettlesome  and  noisy  samovar  was 
searched  out,  also  sugar,  in  very  tiny  bits,  that 
seemed  to  have  been  melted  around  the  edges. 
Lavretzky  drank  his  tea  out  of  a  large  cup;  he 
remembered  that  cup  in  his  childhood:  playing- 
cards  were  depicted  on  it,  only  visitors  drank  out 
of  it, — and  he  now  drank  out  of  it,  like  a  visitor. 
Toward  evening,  his  servants  arrived;  La- 
^■retzky  did  not  wish  to  sleep  in  his  aunt's  bed; 
he  gave  orders  that  a  bed  should  be  made  up  for 
him  in  the  dining-room.  Extinguishing  the 
candle,  he  stared  about  him  for  a  long  time,  and 
meditated  on  cheerless  thoughts;  he  experienced 
the  sensation  familiar  to  every  man  wdio  chances 
to  })ass  the  night,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  place 
which  has  long  been  uninhabited;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  darkness  which  surrounded  him  on 

118 


A  XOHLKMAX'S   XKST 

all  sides  could  not  accustom  itscll"  to  the  new  in- 
habitant, that  the  very  walls  of  the  house  were 
waxing  indignant.  At  last  he  sighed,  drew  the 
coverlet  up  over  him,  and  fell  asleep.  i\nton  i-c- 
mained  afoot  longer  than  the  rest;  foi-  a  long- 
time he  whispered  with  Apraxyeya,  groaned  in 
a  low  tone,  and  crossed  himself  a  couple  of*  limes. 
Neither  of  them  expected  tliat  the  niaster  would 
settle  down  among  them  at  Vasilie\sk()e.  when, 
near  at  hand,  he  owned  such  a  magnificent  estate, 
with  a  capitally-organised  manor-house;  they  did 
not  even  susj^ect  that  it  was  precisely  that  manor- 
house  which  was  repugnant  to  Lavretzky:  it 
evoked  in  him  oppressive  memories.  After  hav- 
ing whispered  his  fill,  Anton  took  his  staff',  and 
beat  upon  tlie  board  at  the  store-house  which  had 
long  been  hanging  silent,^  and  immediately  lay 
down  for  a  nap  in  the  yard,  without  covering  up 
his  grey  head  with  anything.  The  May  night 
was  tranquil  and  caressing — and  the  old  man 
slumbered  sweetly. 

^  It  is  the  duty  of  tlic  iii<i:lil-w;itcliniaii  to  licat  upon  \hc  hoard  at 
reguhir  intervals,  to  show  tiiat  lie  is  vigilant. — Thaxsi.atok. 


119 


XX 

The  next  morning  Lavretzky  rose  quite  early, 
liad  a  talk  with  tlie  overseer,  visited  the  threshing- 
floor,  ordered  the  chain  to  be  removed  from  the 
watch-do"-,  M-ho  only  barked  a  little,-  but  did  not 
even  move  away  from  his  kennel; — and  on  his 
return  home,  sank  into  a  sort  of  peaceful  torpor, 
from  which  he  did  not  emerge  all  day.  "  I  have 
sunk  down  to  the  very  l)ottom  of  the  river  now," 
he  said  to  himself  more  than  once.  He  sat  by  the 
windo^\^  made  no  movement,  and  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  the  current  of  tranquil  life  which  sur- 
rounded him,  to  the  infrequent  noises  of  the 
country  solitudes.  Yonder,  somewhere  beyond 
the  nettles,  some  one  began  to  sing,  in  the  shrillest 
of  voices;  a  gnat  seemed  to  be  chiming  in  with 
the  voice.  No^v  it  ceased,  but  the  gnat  still 
squeaked  on;  athwart  the  energetic,  insistently- 
plaintive  buzzing  of  the  flies  resounded  the  boom- 
ing of  a  fat  bumble-bee,  wliich  kept  biunping  its 
head  against  the  ceiling ;  a  cock  on  the  road  began 
to  crow,  hoarsely  prolonging  the  last  note;  a 
peasant  cart  rumbled  ])ast;  the  gate  toward  the 
village  creaked.  "  Well?  "  suddenly  quavered  a 
woman's  voice. — "Okh,  thou  my  dear  little  sweet- 

120 


A  NOBI.E>rAX  S  NEST 

heart,"  said  Anton  to  a  little  ^irl  of  two  years, 
whom  he  was  dandljn^-  in  his  arms.  "  Feteh 
some  kvas,"  repeats  the  same  female  ^•()ice, — and 
all  at  once  a  deatlilike  silenee  ensues;  iiolhiuii' 
makes  any  noise,  nothing  stirs;  the  hree/e  does 
not  flutter  a  leaf;  the  swallows  dart  alonn-  near 
the  ground,  one  after  the  other,  without  a  ery,  and 
sadness  descends  upon  the  soul  from  their  silent 
flight. — "  Here  I  am,  sunk  down  to  the  hottom 
of  the  river,"  Lavret/ky  says  to  himself  again. — 
"  And  life  is  at  all  times  tranquil,  leisurely  here," 
he  thinks: — "whoever  enters  its  cirele  must  he- 
come  submissive:  here  there  is  nothing  to  agitate 
one's  self  about,  nothing  to  disturb;  here  success 
awaits  only  him  who  lays  out  his  path  without 
haste,  as  the  husbandman  lavs  the  furrow  with  his 
plough."  And  what  strength  there  is  all  around, 
what  health  there  is  in  this  inactive  calm!  Yonder 
now,  under  the  window,  a  sturdy  burdock  is 
making  its  way  out  from  among  the  thick  grass; 
above  it,  the  lovage  is  stretching  forth  its  succu- 
lent stalk,  the  Virgin's-tears '  toss  still  higher 
their  rosv  tendrils;  and  vonder,  further  away,  in 
the  fields,  the  rye  is  gleaming,  and  the  oats  are 
beginning  to  shoot  up  their  stalks,  and  every  leaf 
on  every  tree,  every  blade  of  grass  on  its  stalk, 
spreads  itself  out  to  its  fullest  extent.  "  My  best 
years  have  been  spent  on  the  love  of  a  woman," 

*This  plant  bears  round  seed-pods  of  mottled-prey,  whioh  an- 
often  used  to  make  very  pretty  rosaries.— Tuaxsivtuh. 

121 


A  XOBI.EMAX'S  XEST 

l^iiMvtzky  pursued  his  meditations: — "may  the 
irk  son  HI  less  here  sober  me,  may  it  soothe  me,  pre- 
})are  ine  so  that  1  may  understand  how  to  do  my 
work  without  haste  ";  and  a^j^ain  lie  began  to  lend 
an  ear  to  the  silence,  expecting  nothing, — and,  at 
the  same  time,  as  it  were  incessantly  expecting 
sometliing:  tlie  silence  enfolds  him  on  all  sides, 
the  sun  glides  (juietly  across  the  calm  blue  sky, 
a  cloud  Moats  gently  in  its  wake;  it  seems  as 
though  tliev  know  wliitlier  and  whv  thev  are 
floating.  At  that  same  moment,  in  other  spots 
on  earth,  life  was  seething,  bustling,  roaring;  here 
the  same  life  was  flowing  on  inaudibly,  like  water 
amid  marsh-grass;  and  until  the  very  evening, 
Lavretzky  could  not  tear  himself  from  the  con- 
templation of  that  life  fleeting,  flowing  onward; 
grief  for  the  past  melted  in  his  soul  like  snows 
of  spi'ingtime, — and,  strange  to  say! — never  had 
the  feeling  of  his  native  land  been  so  deep  and 
strong  within  him. 


122 


XXI 

In  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  Feodor  Ivjuiitcli 
hrought  Glafira  Petrovna's  httle  liouse  into  or- 
der; cleaned  up  the  yard,  the  garden;  conif()rtal)le 
furniture  was  brought  to  him  from  Layriki,  wine, 
books,  newspapers  from  the  town;  horses  made 
their  appearance  in  the  stables;  in  a  word,  Feodor 
Ivanitch  provided  himself  with  everytliing  that 
was  necessary  and  began  to  live — not  exactly 
like  a  country  squire,  nor  yet  exactly  like  a  re- 
cluse. His  days  passed  monotonously,  but  he  was 
not  bored,  although  he  saw  no  one;  he  occupied 
himself  diligently  and  attentively  witli  tlie  farm- 
ing operations,  he  rode  about  the  neighbourliood 
on  horseback,  he  read.  He  read  but  little,  how- 
ever: it  was  more  agreeable  for  him  to  listen  to 
the  tales  of  old  Anton.  As  a  rule,  Lavretzky 
would  seat  himself  with  a  pipe  of  tobacco  and 
a  cup  of  cold  tea  near  the  window;  Anton  would 
stand  near  the  door,  with  his  hands  clasped  beliind 
him,  and  begin  his  leisurely  stories  of  olden 
times, — of  those  fabulous  times — when  tlie  oats 
and  barley  were  sold  not  by  measures  ])ut  ])y  liuge 
sacks,  at  two  or  three  kopeks  the  sack;  when  in  all 
directions,  even  close  to  tlic  town,  stretched  iiii- 

1  '2H 


A  XOBLKMAX  S  NEST 

penetrable  forests,  untouched  steppes.  "  And 
no^^ ."'  \vailed  the  old  man,  who  was  already  over 
eighty  years  of  age: — "they  have  felled  and 
])loughed  up  everything  until  there  is  no  place 
to  drive  through."  Anton,  also,  related  many 
things  concerning  his  mistress  Glafira  Petrovna: 
how  sagacious  and  economical  she  had  been ;  liow 
a  certain  gentleman,  a  youthful  neighbour,  had 
attempted  to  gain  her  good-will,  had  taken  to 
calling  frequently, — and  how  she  had  been 
pleased,  for  his  benefit,  even  to  don  her  cap  with 
rose-purple  ribbons,  and  her  yellow  gown  of  tru- 
tru  levantine ;  but  how,  later  on,  having  flown  into 
a  rage  with  her  neighbour,  on  account  of  the 
unseemly  question:  "What  might  your  capital 
amount  to,  madam?"  she  had  given  orders  that 
he  should  not  be  admitted,  and  how  she  had  then 
commanded,  that  everything,  down  to  the  very 
smallest  scrap,  should  be  given  to  Feodor  Ivanitch 
after  her  death.  And,  in  fact,  Lavretzky  found 
all  his  aunt's  effects  intact,  not  excepting  the 
festival  cap,  with  the  rose-purple  ribbons,  and  the 
gown  of  yellow  tru-tru  levantine.  The  ancient 
pa}:)ers  and  curious  documents,  which  Lavretzky 
had  counted  upon,  proved  not  to  exist,  with  the 
exception  of  one  tattered  little  old  book,  in  which 
his  grandfather,  Piotr  Andreitch,  had  jotted 
down,  now—"  Celebration  in  the  city  of  Saint 
Petersburg  of  the  peace  concluded  with  the  Turk- 
ish Empire  by  his  Illustriousness  Prince  Alexan- 

124 


A  NOBI.KMAX  S   XKS T 

tier  Alexiindrovitc'li  Prozomvsky  " ;  now  a  recipe 
for  a  decoction  for  the  chest,  with  the  comment: 
"  This  instrnction  was  given  to  Cieneraless  Pras- 
kovya  Feodorovna  Saltykoff,  by  Feodor  A\  ksen- 
tievitch,  Arclipriest  of  the  Chnrch  of  tin  Life- 
giving  Trinity";  again,  some  item  ol"  pohtieal 
news,  like  the  following:  "In  the  '  Mo.scorv 
News/  it  is  annonnced  that  Premier-Major  Mi- 
khail Petrovitch  Kolytcheff"  has  died.  Was  not 
he  the  son  of  Piotr  Vasilievitch  Kolytehelfr' 
Lavretzky  also  fonnd  several  ancient  calendars 
and  dream-books,  and  the  mystical  works  of  Mr. 
Ambodik;  many  memories  were  awakened  in  him 
by  the  long-forgotten  but  famiUar  "  Symbols 
and  Emblems."  In  Glafira  Petrovna's  toilet- 
table  Lavretzky  found  a  small  packet,  tied  with 
black  ribbon,  and  sealed  with  black  wax,  thrust 
into  the  remotest  recesses  of  the  drawer.  In  the 
packet,  face  to  face,  lay  a  pastel  portrait  of  his 
father  in  his  youth,  with  soft  curls  tumbling  over 
his  brow,  with  long,  languid  eyes,  and  mouth 
half  opened, — and  the  almost  effaced  portrait  of 
a  pale  w^oman  in  a  white  gown,  with  a  A\hite  rose 
in  her  hand, — his  mother.  Glafira  Petrovna  liad 
never  permitted  her  own  portrait  to  be  made. — 
"Dear  little  father  Feodor  Ivaniteh."  -Anton 
was  wont  to  say  to  Lavretzky: — "  althougli  I  did 
not  then  have  my  residence  in  the  manor-house 
of  the  masters,  yet  T  remember  your  great-grand- 
father, Andrei  Afaiuisievitch, — that  T  do:  I  was 

12.5 


A  XOBLKMxVN'S  NEST 

(.ightceii  years  of  age  when  lie  died.  Once  I  met 
liini  in  the  garden, — my  very  hamstrings  shook; 
hut  he  chd  nothing,  only  inquired  my  name, — 
and  sent  me  to  his  chamher  for  a  pocket-handker- 
chief. He  was  a  real  gentleman,  there  's  no  gain- 
saying that, — and  he  recognised  no  superior  over 
him.  For  I  must  inform  you,  that  your  great- 
grandfather had  a  wonderful  amulet, — a  monk 
from  Mount  Athos  gave  him  that  amulet.  And 
that  monk  said  to  him :  '  I  give  thee  this  for  thine 
airabililv,  Bovarin;  wear  it^ — and  fear  not  fate.' 
AW'll,  and  of  course,  dear  little  father,  you 
know,  ^^hat  sort  of  times  those  were;  what  the 
master  took  a  notion  to  do,  that  he  did.  Once 
in  a  while,  some  one,  even  one  of  the  gentry, 
would  take  it  into  his  head  to  thwart  him; 
but  no  sooner  did  he  look  at  him,  than  he  would 
say :  '  You  're  sailing  in  shoal  water  ' — that  was 
his  favourite  expression.  And  he  lived,  your 
great-grandfather  of  blessed  memory,  in  a  tiny 
wooden  mansion;  but  what  property  he  left  be- 
hind him,  what  silver,  and  all  sorts  of  supplies, — 
all  the  cellars  were  filled  to  the  brim !  He  was  a 
master.  That  little  carafe,  which  you  were 
pleased  to  praise, — belonged  to  him:  he  drank 
vodka  from  it.  And  then  your  grandfather, 
Piotr  Ivanitch,  built  himself  a  stone  mansion;  but 
he  acquired  no  property;  with  him  ever\i:hing 
went  at  sixes  and  sevens ;  and  he  lived  worse  than 
his  papa,  and  got  no  pleasiu'e  for  himself, — but 

126 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

wasted  all  the  money,  and  tliere  was  none  to  pay 
for  requiems  for  his  soul;  he  left  not  even  a  silver 
spoon  behind  him,  so  jt  was  Ineky  that  (ilaffra 
Petrovna  brought  things  into  order." 

"  And  is  it  true," — Lavretzky  interrupted  him, 
— "  that  slie  was  called  an  ill-tempered  old  hag?  " 

"Why,  surely,  some  did  call  her  that!" — re- 
turned iVnton,  in  displeasure. 

"  Well,  little  father," — the  old  man  one  day 
summoned  the  courage  to  ask ; — "  and  how  about 
our  young  mistress;  where  is  she  pleased  to  have 
her  residence?  " 

"  I  have  separated  from  my  wife," — said  La- 
vretzky, with  an  effort: — "  please  do  not  inquire 
about  her." 

"  I  obey,  sir,"— replied  the  old  man,  sadly. 

After  the  lapse  of  three  weeks,  Lavretzky  rode 
into  O  *  *  *  on  horseback,  to  the  Kalitins',  and 
passed  the  evening  with  them.  I^emm  was  there ; 
I^avretzky  conceived  a  great  liking  for  him.  Al- 
though, thanks  to  his  father,  he  did  not  play  on 
any  instrument,  yet  he  was  passionately  fond  of 
music, — intelligent,  classical  music.  Pansliin  was 
not  at  the  Kalitins'  that  evening.  The  Governor 
had  sent  him  off  somewhere,  out  of  town.  Liza 
played  alone,  and  with  great  precision;  liCmm 
grew  animated,  excited,  rolled  a  piece  of  paper 
into  a  baton,  and  beat  time.  Marya  Dmitrievna 
iaughed,  at  first,  as  she  watclied  him.  and  then 

127 


A  XOBLE:\rAX'S  XEST 

went  off  to  bed;  as  she  said,  Beethoven  was  too 
agitating  for  her  nerves.  At  midnight,  La- 
vretzky  escorted  Lemm  to  his  lodgings,  and  sat 
with  him  until  three  o'clock  jn  the  morning. 
Lemm  talked  a  great  deal;  his  bent  shoulders 
straightened  up,  his  eyes  opened  widely  and 
sparkled;  his  ver}'  hair  stood  upright  above  his 
brow.  It  was  such  a  very  long  time  since  any 
one  had  taken  an  interest  in  him,  but  Lavretzky 
evidently  did  take  an  interest,  and  interrogated 
him  solicitously  and  attentively.  This  touched 
the  old  man ;  he  ended  by  showing  his  visitor  his 
music,  he  even  played  and  sang  to  him,  with  his 
ghost  of  a  voice,  several  selections  from  his  com- 
positions,— among  others,  the  whole  of  Schiller's 
ballad  "  Fridolin,"  which  he  had  set  to  music. 
Lavretzky  lauded  it,  made  him  repeat  portions 
of  it,  and  invited  him  to  visit  him  for  a  few  days. 
Lemm,  who  was  escorting  him  to  the  street,  im- 
mediately accepted,  and  shook  his  hand  warmly; 
but  when  he  was  left  alone,  in  the  cool,  damp  air 
of  the  day  which  was  just  beginning  to  dawn, 
he  glanced  around  him,  screwed  up  his  eyes, 
writhed,  and  went  softlv  to  his  tinv  chamber,  like 
a  guilty  creature:  "  Icli  bin  wohl  nicht  klug  " 
(I  'm  not  in  my  riglit  mind), — he  muttered,  as 
he  lay  down  on  his  hard,  short  bed.  He  tried  to 
assert  that  he  was  ill  when,  a  few  days  later,  T^a- 
vretzkv  came  for  him  in  a  calash;  but  Feodor 
Ivanitch  went  to  him,  in  his  room,  and  persuaded 

128 


A  NOBI.EIMAN'S  XKST 

him.  The  circimistant'c  which  ()j)tralc(l  most 
powerfully  of  all  on  Lemm  was,  thai  Lavretzky 
had  ordered  a  piano  to  be  sent  to  iiis  eoi  in  try- 
house  f I'om  the  town :  a  piano  for  his — Lemm's — 
use.  Together  they  went  to  the  Kalitins',  and 
spent  the  evening,  but  not  so  agreea})ly  as  on  the 
former  occasion.  Panshin  Mas  there,  had  a  great 
deal  to  narrate  about  his  journey,  and  very  amus- 
ingly mimicked  and  illustrated  in  action  the  coun- 
try squires  he  had  seen;  Lavretzky  laughed,  })ut 
Lemm  did  not  emerge  from  his  corner,  main- 
tained silence,  quietly  quivered  all  ovei-  like  a 
spider,  looked  glum  and  dull,  and  grew  animated 
only  when  Lavretzky  began  to  take  his  leave. 
Even  when  he  was  seated  in  the  calash,  the  old 
man  continued  to  be  shy  and  to  fidget;  but  the 
quiet,  warm  air,  the  light  breeze,  the  delicate 
shadows,  the  perfume  of  the  grass,  of  the  birch 
buds,  the  peaceful  gleam  of  the  starry,  moonless 
heaven,  the  energetic  hoof -beats  and  snorting  of 
the  horses,  all  the  charms  of  the  road,  of  s])ring, 
of  night, — descended  into  the  heart  of  the  i)0()r 
German,  and  he  himself  was  the  first  to  address 
Lavretzky. 


129 


XXII 

He  began  to  talk  of  music,  of  Liza,  then  again 
of  music.  He  seemed,  somehov/,  to  utter  his 
words  more  slowly  when  he  spoke  of  Liza.  La- 
vretzky  turned  the  conversation  on  his  composi- 
tions, and,  half  in  jest,  proposed  to  write  a  libretto 
for  him. 

"  H'm,  a  libretto!" — rejoined  Lemm: — "no, 
that  is  beyond  me :  I  liave  not  that  animation,  that 
phiy   of   fancy,    which    is    indispensable   for   an 

opera ;  I  have  already  lost  my  powers But 

if  I  could  still  do  something, — I  would  be  satis- 
fied with  a  romance ;  of  course,  I  should  like  some 
good  words.  .  .  ." 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  motionless,  with  his  eyes  raised  heavenward. 

"  For  example,"  he  said  at  last: — "  something 
of  this  sort :  '  Ye  stars,  O  ye  pure  stars  '  ?  "  .  .  . 

La\'retzky  turned  his  face  slightlj^  toward  him 
and  began  to  stare  at  liim. 

"  '  Ye  stars,  ye  pure  stars,'  " — repeated  Lemm. 
.  .  .  "  '  Ye  gaze  alike  upon  the  just  and  upon  the 
guiltv  ....  but  onlv  the  innocent  of  heart,' — 
or  something  of  that  sort  .  .  .  '  understand  you,' 
that  is  to  say,  no, — '  love  you.'     However,  I  am 

130 


A  NOBLEMAN'S   XEST 

not  a  poet  .  .  how  should  1  ht* !  But  soiiKtliini^  ii- 
that  style,  something-  lofty." 

Lemm  pushed  his  hat  hack  on  the  nape  of  his 
neck;  in  the  delicate  gloom  of  the  linht  Flight,  his 
face  seemed  whiter  and  more  youthlul. 

And  ye  also,'  " — he  went  on,  with  a  voice 
which  gradually  grew  quieter: — "  '  ye  know  who 
loves,  who  knows  how  to  love,  for  ye  are  pure, 
ye,  alone,  can  comfort.'  .  .  .  Xo,  that 's  not 
right  yet!  I  am  not  a  poet,"— he  said: — "hut 
something  of  that  sort.  .  .  ." 

"  I  regret  that  I  am  not  a  poet," — remarked 
LavretzkJ^ 

"  Empty  visions!"  retorted  Lemm,  and  liuddlcd 
in  the  corner  of  the  calash.  He  closed  his  eyes, 
as  though  preparing  to  go  to  sleep. 

Several  moments  elapsed.  .  .  .  Lavretzky  lis- 
tened. .  .  .  "  '  Stars,  pure  stars,  love,'  " — the  old 
man  was  whispering. 

"  Love," — Lavretzky  repeated  to  himself,  })e- 
came  thoughtful,  and  Jiis  soul  grew  heavy  within 
him. 

"  You  have  written  some  very  heautiful  music 
for  '  Fridolin,'  Christofor  Feodoritch," — he  said 
aloud: — "  and  what  think  you;  did  that  Fridolin, 
after  the  Count  had  led  him  to  his  wife,  hecome 
her  lover — hey?  " 

"  That  is  what  you  think," — returned  Lemm: 
"  hecause,  prohahly,  experience  .  .  .  .  "  He  sud- 
denly fell  silent,  and  turned  away  in  confusion, 

131 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Lavretzky  laughed  in  a  constrained  way,  turned 
away  also,  and  began  to  stare  along  the  road. 

The  stars  had  already  begun  to  pale,  and  the 
sky  was  grey,  \\hen  the  calash  rolled  up  to  the 
porch  of  the  little  house  at  Vasilievskoe.  La- 
vretzky conducted  his  guest  to  the  chamber  which 
had  been  assigned  to  him,  returned  to  his  study, 
and  sat  down  by  the  window.  In  the  park,  a 
nightingale  was  singing  its  last  lay  before  the 
dawn.  I^avretzky  remembered  that  a  nightingale 
had  been  singing  in  the  Kalitins'  garden  also; 
he  recalled,  too,  the  tranquil  movement  of  Liza's 
eyes  when,  at  the  first  sounds  of  it,  they  had 
turned  toward  the  dark  window.  He  began  to 
think  of  her,  and  his  heart  grew  calm  within  him. 
"  Pure  little  star," — he  said  to  himself,  in  a  low 
tone: — "  pure  stars," — he  added,  with  a  smile, 
and  calmly  lay  down  to  sleep. 

But  Lemm  sat,  for  a  long  time,  on  his  bed, 
with  a  book  of  music-paper  on  his  knees.  It 
seemed  as  though  a  strange,  sweet  melody  were 
about  to  visit  him:  he  was  already  burning  and 
growing  agitated,  he  already  felt  the  lassitude 
and  sweetness  of  its  approach  .  .  .  but  it  did 
not  come. 

"  I  am  not  a  poet,  and  not  a  musician! " — he 
whispered  at  last 

And  his  weary  head  sank  back  heavily  on  the 
pillow. 


132 


XXIII 

On  the  following  morning,  host  and  guest  drank 
tea  in  the  garden,  under  an  ancient  linden-tree. 

"JSIaestro!" — said  I.avretsky,  among  other 
things: — "you  will  soon  have  to  compose  a  tri- 
umphal cantata." 

"  On  what  occasion?  " 

"  On  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  JNlr. 
Panshin  to  Liza.  Did  you  notice  how  he  was 
paying  court  to  her  last  evening?  It  seems  as 
though  everything  were  going  smoothly  witli 
them." 

"  That  shall  not  be!  "  exclaimed  Lemm. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  is  impossible.  However," — he 
added,  after  a  pause: — "everything  is  possible 
in  this  world.  Especially  here,  with  you,  in 
Russia." 

"  Let  us  leave  Russia  out  of  the  question  for 
the  present;  but  what  evil  do  you  see  in  that  mar- 
riage  ? 

"  All  is  evil,  all.  Lizaveta  IVIikhaflovna  is  an 
upright,  serious  maiden,  with  exalted  senti- 
ments,— but  he he  is  a  di-let-tante,   in 

one  word." 

133 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  But  surely  she  loves  him?  " 

Lenmi  rose  from  the  bench. 

"  No,  she  does  not  love  him,  that  is  to  say,  she 
is  very  pure  in  heart,  and  does  not  know  herself 
what  '  love  '  means.  INIadam  von  Kalitin  tells 
lier,  that  he  is  a  nice  young  man,  and  she  listens 
to  ^Nladam  von  Kalitin,  because  she  is  still  a 
perfect  child,  although  she  is  nineteen  years  of 
age:  she  says  her  prayers  in  the  morning,  she 
says  her  prajxrs  in  the  evening, — and  that  is  very 
praiseworthy;  but  she  does  not  love  him.  She 
can  love  only  the  fine,  but  he  is  not  fine;  that  is, 
his  soul  is  not  fine." 

Lemm  uttered  this  whole  speech  coherently 
and  with  fervour,  pacing  back  and  forth,  with 
short  strides,  in  front  of  the  tea-table,  and  with 
his  eyes  flitting  over  the  ground. 

"My  dearest  ^Maestro!" — exclaimed  Lavret- 
zky  all  at  once: — "  it  strikes  me,  that  you  are  in 
love  with  my  cousin  yourself." 

Lemm  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  Please," — he  began  in  an  uncertain  voice: — 
"  do  not  jest  thus  with  me.     I  am  not  a  lunatic." 

Lavretzky  felt  sorr}?^  for  the  old  man;  he  en- 
treated his  forgiveness.  After  tea,  Lemm 
played  him  his  cantata,  and  at  dinner,  being 
instigated  thereto  by  Lavretzky  himself,  he 
again  began  to  talk  about  Liza.  Lavretzky  lis- 
tened to  him  with  attention  and  curiosity. 

"  What  think  vou,  Christofor  Feodoritch," — 

134 


A  NOBTvEMAN'S  XKST 

he  said  at  last — "  everytliiiio-  appears  to  be  in 
order  with  us  now,  the  garden  is  in  full  bloom. 
....  Shall  not  we  invite  her  here  for  tlie  day, 
together  with  her  mother  and  my  old  aunt, — 
hey?   Wovdd  that  be  agreeable  to  j'^ou?  " 

Lemm  bent  his  head  over  his  ])late. 

"  Invite  her," — he  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  And  Panshin  need  not  be  asked?  " 

"  He  need  not," — replied  the  old  man,  with  a 
half -childlike  smile. 

Two  days  later,  Feodor  Ivaniteh  set  out  for 
the  town,  to  the  Kalitins. 


135 


XXIV 

He  found  them  all  at  home,  but  he  did  not  im- 
mediately announce  to  them  his  intention:  he 
wished,  first,  to  have  a  talk  alone  with  Liza. 
Chance  aided  him:  they  were  left  alone  together 
in  the  drawing-room.  They  fell  into  conversa- 
tion: she  had  succeeded  in  getting  used  to  him, — - 
and,  in  general,  she  was  not  shy  of  any  one.  He 
listened  to  her,  looked  her  straight  in  the  face, 
and  mentally  repeated  Lemm's  words,  and 
agreed  with  him.  It  sometimes  happens,  that 
two  persons  who  are  already  acquainted,  but  not 
intimate,  suddenly  and  swiftly  draw  near  to  each 
other  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes, — and  the 
consciousness  of  this  approach  is  immediately  re- 
flected in  their  glances,  in  their  friendly,  quiet 
smiles,  in  their  very  movements.  Precisely  this 
is  what  took  place  with  Lavretzky  and  Liza. 
"  So  that 's  what  he  is  like,"  she  thought,  gazing 
caressingly  at  him;  "so  that's  what  thou  art 
like,"  he  said  to  himself  also.  And  therefore, 
he  was  not  greatly  surprised  when  she,  not  with- 
out a  slight  hesitation,  however,  announced  to 
him,  that  she  had  long  had  it  in  her  heart  to  say 
something  to  him,  but  liad  been  afraid  of  annoy- 
ing him. 

13r. 


A  X()HLKMAX\S   XKST 

"Have  no  fear;  speak  out," — he  said,  and 
halted  in  front  of  her. 

Liza  raised  her  elear  eyes  to  his. 

"  You  are  so  kind," — she  began,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  she  said  to  herself: — "  '  yes,  he  reallv 
is  kind  '  .  .  .  you  will  pardon  me,  })ut  1  oughl 
not  to  speak  of  this  to  you  ....  hut  how  eould 
you  .  .  .  why  did  you  separate  from  your  ^^•ife?  " 

Lavretzky  shuddered,  glanced  at  Liza,  and 
seated  himself  beside  her. 

"  My  child,"  he  began, — "  please  do  not  toucli 
that  wound ;  your  hands  are  tender,  but  neverthe- 
less I  shall  suffer  pain." 

"  I  know," — went  on  Liza,  as  though  she  had 
not  heard  him: — "  she  is  culpable  toward  you,  1 
do  not  wish  to  defend  her;  but  how  is  it  possible 
to  put  asunder  that  which  God  has  joined  to- 
gether? " 

"  Our  convictions  on  that  point  are  too  dis- 
similar, Lizaveta  jNIikhailovna," — said  Lavret- 
zky, rather  sharply; — "we  shall  not  understand 
each  other." 

Liza  turned  pale;  her  whole  body  quivered 
slightly ;  but  she  did  not  hold  her  peace. 

"You  ought  to  forgive," — she  said  softly: — 
"  if  you  wisli  to  be  forgiven." 

"Forgive!" — Lavretzky  caught  her  up: — 
"  Ought  not  you  first  to  know  for  whom  you  are 
pleading?  Forgive  that  woman,  take  her  back 
into  my  house,— her,— tliat  empty,  heartless  crea- 

137 


A  XOBLEMxVN'S  NEST 

til  re!  And  who  has  told  you,  tliat  she  M'ishes  to 
return  to  me^  Good  heavens,  she  is  entirely  sat- 
isfied with  lier  position But  wliat  is  the 

use  of  talkin<>-  ahout  it!  Her  name  ought  not  to 
be  uttered  by  you.  Vou  are  t(w  pure,  you  are 
not  even  in  a  position  to  understand  what  sort  of 
a  being  she  is." 

"  Why  vihfy  her?  " — said  Eiza,  Avitli  an  effort. 
Tlie  trenibhng  of  lier  hands  became  visible.  "  It 
was  you  yourself  who  abandoned  her,  Feodor 
Ivaniteh." 

"  But  I  tell  vou," — retorted  Lavretzkv,  with 
an  involuntary  outburst  of  impatience: — "that 
you  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  creature 
she  is!  " 

"  Then  why  did  you  marry  her?  " — whispered 
Liza,  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

Lavretzkv  sprang  up  hastily  from  his  seat. 

"  Why  did  1  marry?  I  was  young  and  inex- 
perienced then;  I  was  deceived,  I  w^as  carried 
away  by  a  beautiful  exterior.  1  did  not  know 
women,  I  did  not  know  anything.  God  grant 
that  you  may  make  a  happier  marriage!  But,  be- 
lieve me,  it  is  impossible  to  vouch  for  anything." 

"  And  I  may  be  just  as  unhappy," — said  Liza 
(her  voice  began  to  break)  :  "  but,  in  that  case, 
I  must  submit;  I  do  not  know  how  to  talk,  but 
if  we  do  not  submit  .  .  ." 

Lavretzkv  clenched  liis  fists  and  stamped  his 
foot. 

138 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"Be  not  angry;  forgive  nie! " — ejaculated 
Liza,  hastily. 

At  that  moment,  IVIarya  Dniitrievna  entered. 
Liza  rose,  and  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Stop!  "  —  Lavretzky  unexpectedly  called 
after  her.  "  I  have  a  great  favour  to  ask  of  your 
mother  and  of  you:  make  me  a  visit  to  celehrate 
my  new  home.  You  know,  I  have  set  up  a  ])iano; 
Lemm  is  staying  with  me;  the  lilacs  are  now  in 
bloom;  you  will  get  a  breath  of  the  country 
air,  and  can  return  the  same  day, — do  you 
accept?  " 

Liza  glanced  at  her  mother,  and  ISIarya  Dnii- 
trievna assumed  an  air  of  suffering,  but  Lavret- 
zky, without  giving  her  a  chance  to  open  her 
mouth,  instantly  kissed  both  her  hands.  Marya 
Dmitrievna,  who  was  always  susceptible  to  en- 
dearments, and  had  not  expected  such  amiability 
from  "  the  dolt,"  was  touched  to  the  soul,  and 
consented.  While  she  was  considering  what  day 
to  appoint,  Lavretzky  approached  I^iza,  and,  still 
greatly  agitated,  furtively  whispered  to  her: 
"  Thank  you,  you  are  a  good  girl,  I  am  to  blame." 
....  And  her  pale  face  flushed  crimson  with  a 
cheerful — bashful  smile;  her  eyes  also  smiled, — 
up  to  that  moment,  she  had  been*  afraid  that  she 
had  oiFended  him. 

"May  Vladimir  Nikohiiteh  go  with  us?" — 
asked  Marya  Dmi'trie\'na. 

"  Certainly," — responded     Lavretzky: — "  but 

139 


A  NOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

would  it  not  be  better  if  we  confined  ourselves 
to  our  own  family  circle?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  but  you  see  .  .  .  ."  Marj^-a 
Dinitrievna  began.  "  However,  as  you  like," 
sbe  added. 

It  was  decided  to  take  Lyenotcbka  and  Scbu- 
rotcbka.  Marfa  Tiniofeevna  declined  to  make 
the  iournev. 

"  It  is  too  hard  for  me,  my  dear," — she  said, — 
"my  old  bones  ache:  and  I  am  sure  there  is  no 
j^lace  at  yoiu*  house  where  I  can  spend  the  night ; 
and  I  cannot  sleep  in  a  strange  bed.  Let  these 
young  people  do  the  gallivanting." 

Lavretzky  did  not  succeed  in  being  alone 
again  with  I^iza;  but  he  looked  at  her  in  such  a 
way,  that  she  felt  at  ease,  and  rather  ashamed, 
and  sorry  for  him.  On  taking  leave  of  her,  he 
pressed  her  hand  warmly;  when  she  was  left 
alone,  she  fell  into  thought. 


140 


XXV 

When  Lavretzky  reached  home,  he  was  met  on 
the  thresliold  of  the  drawing-room  hy  a  tall,  thin 
man,  in  a  threadbare  bine  coat,  with  frowzy  grey 
side-whiskers,  a  long,  straight  nose,  and  small, 
inflamed  eyes.  This  was  :Mikhalevitch,  his 
former  comrade  at  the  university.  Lavretzky 
did  not  recognise  him  at  fii-st,  but  embraced  him 
warmly  as  soon  as  he  mentioned  his  name.  They 
had  not  seen  each  other  since  the  ^loscow  days. 
There  was  a  shower  of  exclamations,  of  ques- 
tions; long-smothered  memories  came  forth  into 
the  Hght  of  day.  Hurriedly  smoking  pipe  after 
pij)e,  drinking  down  tea  in  gulps,  and  floui*- 
ishing  his  long  arms,  JNIikhalevitch  narrated  his 
adventures  to  Lavretzky;  there  was  nothing  very 
cheerful  about  them,  he  could  not  boast  of  success 
in  his  enterprises, — but  he  laughed  incessantly, 
with  a  hoarse,  nervous  laugli.  A  month  pre- 
viously, he  had  obtained  a  situation  in  the  private 
counting-house  of  a  wealthy  distiller,  about  three 
hundred  versts  from  the  town  of  Q  *  *  *,  and, 
on  learning  of  Lavretzky's  return  from  abroad, 
he  had  turned  aside  from  his  road,  in  order  to  see 

141 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

his  old  friend.  ]Mikhalevitch  talked  as  abruptly 
as  in  his  younger  days,  was  as  noisy  and  effer- 
vescent as  ever.  Lavretzky  was  about  to  allude 
to  his  circumstances,  but  ]Mikhalevitch  inter- 
rupted him,  hastily  muttering:  "I've  heard, 
brother,  I  've  heard  about  it, — who  could  have 
anticipated  it?" — and  immediately  turned  the 
conversation  into  the  region  of  general  com- 
ments. 

"I,  })rother," — he  said: — "must  leave  thee 
to-morrow;  to-day,  thou  must  excuse  me — we 
will  go  to  bed  late — I  positively  must  find  out 
what  are  thy  opinions,  convictions,  what  sort  of 
a  person  thou  hast  become,  what  life  has  taught 
thee."  (Mikhalevitch  still  retained  the  phrase- 
ology of  the  '30s. )  "  So  far  as  I  myself  am  con- 
cerned, I  have  changed  in  many  respects,  bro- 
ther: the  billows  of  life  have  fallen  upon  my 
breast,— who  the  dickens  was  it  that  said  that? — 
although,  in  imj)ortant,  essential  points,  I  have 
not  changed;  I  believe,  as  of  yore,  in  the  good, 
in  the  truth;  but  I  not  only  believe, — I  am  now 
a  believer,  yes — I  am  a  believer,  a  religious  be- 
liever. Hearken,  thou  knowest  that  I  write 
verses;  there  is  no  poetry  in  them,  but  there  is 
truth.  I  will  recite  to  thee  my  last  piece:  in  it  I 
have  given  expression  to  my  most  sincere  convic- 
tions. Listen." — IMiklialevitch  began  to  recite  a 
poem;  it  was  rather  long,  and  wound  up  with 
the  following  lines: 

142 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"To  new  feeling-  I  liuve  suit;  lulered  nivsili"  uith  all 
my  heart, 
I  have  become  like  a  child  in  soul : 
And  I  have  burned  all  that  I  worshipped. 
I  have  worshipped  all  that  I  burned." 

As  he  declaimed  these  last  two  lines,  Miklia- 
levitch  was  on  the  verge  of  tears;  slight  convul- 
sive twitchings,  the  signs  of  deep  feeling — flitted 
across  his  broad  lips,  his  ugly  face  lighted  up. 
Lavretzky  listened  and  listened  to  him;  tlie  spii'it 
of  contradiction  began  to  stir  within  him:  the 
ever-ready,  incessantly-seething  enthusiasm  of 
the  Moscow  student  irritated  liim.  A  (luarttr 
of  an  hour  had  not  elapsed,  before  a  dispute 
flared  up  between  them,  one  of  those  intermina- 
ble disputes,  of  which  only  Russians  are  capable. 
After  a  separation  of  many  years'  duration, 
spent  in  two  widely-different  spheres,  under- 
standing clearly  neither  other  people's  thoughts 
nor  their  own, — cavilling  at  words  and  retorting 
with  mere  words,  they  argued  about  the  most  ab- 
stract subjects, — and  argued  as  though  it  were 
a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  both  of  them :  they 
shouted  and  yelled  so,  that  all  the  people  in  the 
house  took  fright,  and  poor  Lemm,  who,  from 
the  moment  of  JMikhalevitch's  arrival,  had  locked 
himself  up  in  his  room,  became  bewildered,  and 
began,  in  a  confused  way,  to  be  afraid. 

"But  what  art  thou  after  this?  disillusioned?  " 

143 


A  XORLEMxVX'S   NEST 

■ — shouted  iSIiklialevitdi  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
iiiorniiig-. 

"  Arc  tlicrc  any  such  chsiUusioncd  people?  " — 
retorted  Lavretzky: — "  they  are  all  poor  and  ill, 
— and  I  '11  pick  thee  up  with  one  hand,  sliall  I?  " 

"  Well,  if  not  a  (lisUlusioned  man,  then  a  scep- 
tuik,  and  that  is  still  worse."  (Mikhalevitch's 
pronunciation  still  smacked  of  his  native  Little 
Russia.)  "And  what  right  hast  thou  to  be  a 
sceptic?  Thou  hast  had  bad  luck  in  life,  granted; 
tliat  was  no  fault  of  thine:  thou  wert  born  with 
a  passionate,  loving  soul,  and  thou  wert  forcibly 
kej^t  away  from  women:  the  first  \\'oman  that 
came  in  thv  wav  was  bound  to  deceive  thee." 

"  And  she  did  deceive  me," — remarked  La- 
vretzky, gloomily. 

"  Granted,  granted ;  1  was  the  instrument  of 
fate  there, — "but  what  nonsense  am  I  talking? — 
there  's  no  fate  about  it ;  it 's  merely  an  old  habit 
of  expressing  myself  inaccurately.  But  what 
does  that  prove?  " 

"  It  proves,  that  they  dislocated  me  in  my 
childhood." 

"  But  set  thy  joints!  to  that  end  thou  art  a 
liuman  being,  a  man ;  thou  hast  no  need  to  borrow 
energy!  But,  at  any  rate,  is  it  possible,  is  it  per- 
missible, to  erect  a  private  fact,  so  to  speak,  into 
a  general  law,  into  an  immutable  law?  " 

"Where  is  the  rule?" — interrupted  Lavret- 
zky,— "  I  do  not  admit  .  .  ." 

144 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

"  Yes,  it  is  tliy  rule,  tliy  rule,"  Mikhalevitch 
interrupted  him  in  his  turn.   .   .   . 

"Thou  art  an  egoist,  that's  what  thou  art!" 
— he  thundered,  an  hour  later:  -"  thou  hasl  de- 
sired thine  own  personal  enjoyment,  thou  hast 
desired  happiness  in  life,  thou  hast  desired  to  live 
for  thyself  alone.  ..." 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  hy  personal  enjoy- 
ment?" 

"And  everything  has  deeeived  thee;  every- 
thing has  crumhled  awav  heneath  thv  feet." 

"What  is  personal  enjoyment, — I  ask  thee?" 

"  And  it  was  bound  to  crumble.  For  thou 
hast  sought  support  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 
for  thou  hast  built  thy  house  on  a  (|uieksand.  .  ." 

"  Speak  more  plainly,  without  metaphors,  be- 
cause I  do  not  understand  thee." 

"  Because,- — laugh  if  it  pleases  thee, — because 
there  is  no  faith  in  thee,  no  warmth  of  heart; 
mind,  merely  a  farthing  mind;  thou  art  sim])ly 
a  pitiful,  lagging  Voltairian — that 's  what  thou 
art! " 

"  Who — I  am  a  Voltairian  ?  " 

"  Yes,  just  the  same  sort  as  thy  father  was, 
and  dost  not  suspect  it  thyself." 

"  After  that,"— cried  Eavretzky,— "  I  have 
a  right  to  say  that  thou  art  a  i'anatie!  " 

"Alas'." — returned  Mikhaieviteh,  with  contri- 
tion:—"  unha])pily,  as  yet  I  have  in  no  way 
earned  so  lofty  an  appellation.  .  ." 

145 


A  XOBLEMAX  S  NEST 

"  Now  1  have  di.sco^•ered  what  to  call  thee," — ■ 
shouted  this  same  Miklialevitch,  at  three  o'clock 
ill  the  morning; — "  thou  art  not  a  sceptic,  not  a 
disillusioned  man,  not  a  Voltairian, — thou  art  a 
triHer,  and  thou  art  an  evil-minded  trifler,  a  con- 
scious trifler,  not  an  ingenuous  trifler.  Ingenuous 
triflers  lie  around  on  the  oven  and  do  nothing, 
hecause  they  do  not  know  how  to  do  anything; 
and  they  think  of  nothing.  But  thou  art  a 
thinking  man, — and  thou  liest  around;  thou 
mightest  do  something — and  thou  dost  nothing; 
thou  liest  with  thy  well-fed  belly  upward  and 
sayest:  '  It  is  proper  to  lie  thus,  because  every- 
tliing  that  men  do  is  nonsense,  and  twaddle  which 
leads  to  nothing.'  " 

"  But  what  makes  thee  tliink  that  I  trifle," — 
insisted  Lavretzky: — "why  dost  thou  assume 
such  thoughts  on  my  part?  " 

"  And  more  than  that,  all  of  you,  all  the  people 
of  your  sort," — pursued  the  obstreperous  JNIikha- 
levitch : — "  are  erudite  triflers.  You  know  on 
what  foot  the  German  limps,  you  .know  what  is 
bad  about  the  English  and  the  French, — and  your 
knowledge  comes  to  your  assistance,  justifies  your 
shameful  laziness,  your  disgusting  inactivity. 
Some  men  will  even  pride  themselves,  and  say, 
'  What  a  clever  fellow  I  am! — 1  lie  around,  but 
the  others,  the  fools,  bustle  about.'  Yes!— And 
there  are  such  gentlemen  among  us, — I  am  not 
saying  this  with  reference  to  thee,  however,—- 

146 


A  N015LKMAX\S   XEST 

who  puss  their  whole  hves  in  a  sort  of  stupor  of 
tedium,  grow  accustomed  to  it,  sit  in  it  hke  .... 
hke  a  mushroom  in  soui-  cream,"  Mikhalevitch 
caught  himself  up,  and  hurst  out  laughing  at  his 
own  comparison. — "  Oli,  lluit  stupor  of  techuni 
is  the  ruin  of  the  Russians!  The  repulsive  Irilkr, 
all  his  life  long,  is  getting  ready  to  work " 

"  Come,  what  art  thou  calling  names  for?  " — 
roared  T>avrctzky,  in  his  turn. — "  Work  .  .  . 
act  .  .  .  Tell  me,  rather,  \\'hat  to  do,  hut  don't  call 
names,  j^ou  Poltava  Demosthenes!  " 

"  Just  see  what  a  freak  he  has  taken!  1  '11  not 
tell  thee  that,  brother;  every  one  must  know  that 
himself,"  retorted  Demosthenes,  ironically. — "  A 
landed  proprietor,  a  nobleman — and  he  does  n't 
know  what  to  do!  Thou  hast  no  faith,  or  thou 
wouldst  know;  thou  hast  no  faith — and  there  is 
no  revelation." 

"  Give  me  a  rest,  at  any  rate,  you  devil:  give 
me  a  chance  to  look  around  me," — entreated 
Lavretzky. 

"Not  a  minute,  not  a  second  of  respite!" — 
retorted  iMikhalevitch,  with  an  imperious  gestuie 
of  the  hand. — "Not  one  second! — Death  does 
not  wait,  and  life  ought  not  to  wait."  .  .  . 

"  And  when,  where  did  men  get  the  idea  of 
becoming  triflers?  " — he  shouted,  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  but  his  voice  had  now  begun  to 
be  rather  hoarse:  "among  us!  now!  in  Knssia! 
when  on  every  separate  individual  a  tluty,  a  great 

147 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

ohliiiatioii  is  incumbent  toward  God,  toward  the 
nation,  toward  himself!  We  are  sleeping,  but 
time  is  passing  on;  we  are  sleeping.  .  .  ." 

"  Permit  me  to  observe  to  thee," — said  La- 
vretzky, — "  that  we  are  not  sleeping  at  all,  now, 
but  are,  rather,  preventing  others  from  sleeping. 
We  are  cracking  our  throats  like  cocks.  Hark, 
is  n't  that  tlie  third  cock-crow?  " 

« 

This  sally  disconcerted  and  calmed  down 
^likhalevitcli.  "  Farewell  until  to-morrow,"^ — 
he  said,  with  a  smile, — and  thrust  his  pipe  into 
his  tobacco-pouch.  "  Farewell  until  to-morrow," 
repeated  I^avretzky.  But  the  friends  conversed 
for  an  hour  longer.  However,  their  voices  were 
no  longer  raised,  and  their  speeches  were  quiet, 
sad,  and  kind. 

jNIikhalevitch  departed  on  the  following  day, 
in  spite  of  all  Tjavretzky's  efforts  to  detain  him. 
Feodor  Ivanitch  did  not  succeed  in  persuading 
liim  to  remain;  but  he  talked  with  him  to  his 
heart's  content.  It  came  out,  that  ]Mikhalevitch 
had  not  a  penny  in  the  world.  Already,  on  the 
preceding  evening,  I^avretzky,  with  compassion, 
had  observed  in  him  all  the  signs  and  habits  of 
confirmed  poverty;  his  boots  were  broken,  a  but- 
ton was  missing  from  the  back  of  his  coat,  his 
hands  were  guiltless  of  gloves,  down  was  visible 
in  his  hair;  on  his  arrival,  it  had  not  occurred  to 
him  to  ask  for  washing  materials,  and  at  supper 
he  ate  like  a  sliark    tearing  the  meat  apart  with 

148 


A  NOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

his  hands,  and  cracking  the  hones  noisily  witli 
his  strong,  hhick  teetli.  It  ap|)eare(l,  also,  tlial 
the  service  had  heen  of  no  henetit  to  liim,  that  he- 
liad  staked  all  his  hopes  on  the  revenue-farmer, 
who  had  engaged  liim  sini])ly  witli  tlie  ohject  of 
having  in  his  counting-house  "  an  echicated  man." 
In  spite  of  all  this,  IMiklialevitch  was  not  de- 
jected, and  lived  on  as  a  cynic,  an  idealist,  a  poet, 
sincerely  rejoicing  and  grieving  over  the  lot  of 
mankind,  over  his  own  calling, — and  trouhled 
himself  very  little  as  to  how  he  was  to  keep  him- 
self from  dying  with  hunger.  ]\likhalevitch  had 
not  married,  hut  had  heen  in  love  times  witliout 
number,  and  wrote  verses  about  all  his  lady-loves; 
with  especial  fervour  did  he  sing  the  praises  of 
one  mysterious  "  panna  "^  with  })lack  and  curling 
locks.  .  .  .  Rumours  were  in  circulation,  it  is  time, 
to  the  effect  that  the  "  panna  "  in  question  was  a 
plain  Jewess,  well  known  to  many  cavalry  offi- 
cers .  .  .  but,  when  vou  come  to  think  of  it, — 
does  that  make  any  difference? 

Mikhalevitch  did  not  get  on  well  with  Lemm: 
his  vociferous  speeches,  his  harsh  manners,  f riglit- 
ened  the  German,  who  was  not  used  to  such 
things.  .  .  An  unfortunate  wretch  always  scents 
another  unfortunate  wretch  from  afar,  but 
rarely  makes  up  to  him  in  old  age, — and  this  is 
not  in  the  least  to  be  wondered  at:  he  has  nothing 
to  share  with  him, — not  even  hopes. 

*  Polish  for  "  gentlewoman." — Tran'8i.atoh. 

14.9 


A  XOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Before  his  departure,  ^likhalevitch  had  an- 
other long  talk  with  Lavretzky,  prophesied  per- 
dition to  him,  if  he  did  not  come  to  a  sense  of  his 
errors,  entreated  him  to  oecupj^  himself  seriously 
with  the  existence  of  his  peasants,  set  himself  up 
as  an  example,  saying,  that  he  had  been  purified 
in  the  furnace  of  affliction, — and  immediately 
thereafter,  several  times  mentioned  himself  as  a 
happy  man,  compared  himself  to  the  birds  of 
heaven,  the  lilies  of  the  field " 

"  A  black  lily,  at  any  rate," — remarked  La- 
vretzky. 

"  Eh,  brother,  don't  put  on  any  of  your 
aristocratic  airs," — retorted  INIikhalevitch,  good- 
naturedly  : — "  but  thank  God,  rather,  that  in  thy 
veins  flows  honest,  plebeian  blood.  But  I  per- 
ceive, that  thou  art  now  in  need  of  some  pure, 
unearthly  being,  who  shall  wrest  thee  from  this 
apathy  of  thine." 

"Thanks,  brother," — said  Lavretzky: — "I 
have  had  enough  of  those  unearthly  beings." 

"  Shut  up,  cuinuih! " — exclaimed  Mikhale- 
vitch. 

"  Cynic," — Lavretzky  corrected  him. 

"  Just  so,  cuinuih" — repeated  Miklialevitch, 
in  no  wise  disconcerted. 

Even  as  he  took  his  seat  in  tlie  tarantas,  to 
which  his  flat,  yellow,  strangely  light  trunk  was 
carried  forth,  he  continued  to  talk;  wrapped  up 
in  some  sort  of  a  Spanish  cloak  with  a  rusty  col- 

150 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

lar,  and  lion's  paws  in  place  oi'  chisi).s,  lu-  still 
went  on  setting  forth  his  views  as  to  the  fate  of 
Russia,  and  waving  liis  swarthy  luind  tlirougli 
the  air,  as  though  he  were  sowing  the  seeds  of  its 
future  welfare.  At  last  the  horses  started.  .  .  . 
"  Bear  in  mind  my  last  three  words,"— he 
shouted,  thrusting  his  whole  hody  out  of  the  ta- 
rantas,  and  balancing  himself: — "  religion,  prog- 
ress, humanity!  ....  Farewell!  "  His  head,  with 
its  cap  pulled  down  to  the  very  eyes,  vanislied. 
Lavretzky  remained  standing  alone  on  the  porch 
and  staring  down  the  road  until  the  tarantds  dis- 
appeared from  his  sight.  "  But  I  think  he 
probably  is  right," — he  said  to  himself,  as  lie  re- 
entered the  house: — "  probably  I  am  a  trifler." 
Many  of  Mikhalevitch's  words  had  sunk  indelibly 
into  his  soul,  although  he  had  disputed  and  had 
not  agreed  with  him.  If  only  a  man  be  kindly,  no 
one  can  repulse  him. 


151 


XXVI 

Two  davs  later,  JNIarva  Dmitrievna  arrived  with 
all  her  young  people  at  Vasilievskoe,,  in  accord- 
ance with  her  promise.  The  little  girls  imme- 
diately ran  out  into  the  garden,  while  Marya 
Dmitrievna  languidly  traversed  the  rooms,  and 
languidly  praised  everything.  Her  visit  to  La- 
vretzky  she  regarded  as  a  token  of  great  .con- 
descension, almost  in  the  light  of  a  good  deed. 
She  smiled  affahly  when  Anton  and  Apraxyeya, 
after  the  ancient  custom  of  house-serfs,  came 
to  kiss  her  hand, — and  in  an  enervated  voice, 
through  her  nose,  she  asked  them  to  give  her  some 
tea.  To  the  great  vexation  of  Anton,  who  had 
donned  white  knitted  gloves,  the  jiewly-arrived 
lady  was  served  with  tea  not  by  him,  but  by  La- 
vretzky's  hired  valet,  who,  according  to  the  as- 
sertion of  the  old  man,  knew  nothing  whatever 
about  proper  forms.  On  the  other  hand,  Anton 
reasserted  his  rights  at  dinner:  firm  as  a  post  he 
stood  behind  ^larva  Dmitrievna's  chair — and 
yielded  his  place  to  no  one.  The  long-unpre- 
cedented arrival  of  visitors  at  Vasilievskoe  both 
agitated  and  rejoiced  the  old  man:  it  pleased  him 
to  see,  tliat  liis  master  knew  nice  people.     How- 

152 


A  XOBLE:\rAX'S  XEST 

ever,  he  was  not  tlie  only  one  wlio  was  excited 
on  that  day:  Lemm,  also,  was  excited.  lie  put 
on  a  short,  snufF-colonred  i'rock-coat,  willi  a 
sharp-pointed  collar,  honnd  his  ncckerchicl* 
tiglitly,  and  incessantly  con*>hc(l  and  stepped 
aside,  with  an  agreeahle  and  conrteons  mien,  I  .a- 
vretzky  noted,  with  satisfaction,  that  the  close 
relations  hetween  himself  and  Liza  still  contin- 
ued: no  sooner  did  she  enter,  than  she  offered  him 
her  hand,  in  friendly  wise.  After  dinner,  Lemm 
drew  forth,  from  the  hack  pocket  of  his  coat,  into 
which  he  had  heen  constantly  thrusting  his  hand, 
a  small  roll  of  music,  and  pursing  up  his  lips,  he 
silently  laid  it  on  the  piano.  It  was  a  romance, 
which  he  had  composed  on  the  preceding  day  to 
old-fashioned  German  words,  in  which  the  stars 
were  alluded  to.  Liza  immediately  seated  her- 
self at  the  piano  and  hegan  to  decipher  the 
romance.  .  .  .  Alas,  the  music  turned  out  to  he 
complicated,  and  disagreeahly  strained;  it  was 
ohvious  that  the  composer  had  attem])ted  to  ex- 
press some  passionate,  profound  sentiment,  hnt 
nothing  had  come  of  it:  so  the  attempt  remained 
merely  an  attempt.  .  Lavretzky  and  Liza  hoth 
felt  this, — and  Lemm  understood  it:  lie  said  not 
a  word,  put  his  romance  hack  in  his  p(x*ket.  and 
in  reply  to  Liza's  proposal  to  ])lay  it  over  again, 
he  merely  said  significantly,  with  a  shake  of  his 
head:  "Enough — for  the  present!" — hent  his 
shoulders,  shrank  together,  and  left  the  room. 

153 


A  xoble:max\s  nest 

Toward  evening,  they  ail  went  fishing  to- 
gether. Tlie  })()n(l  beyond  the  garden  contained 
a  quantity  of  carp  and  loach.  They  placed 
Miirya  Dniitrievna  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  bank, 
in  the  shade,  spread  a  rug  under  her  feet,  and 
gave  her  the  best  hook;  xVnton,  in  the  quality  of 
an  old  and  expert  fisherman,  offered  liis  services. 
He  assiduously  spitted  worms  on  the  hook, 
slapped  them  down  with  his  hand,  spat  on  them, 
and  even  himself  flung  the  line  and  hook,  bend- 
ing forward  \vith  his  whole  body.  That  same 
day,  iSIarya  Dmitrievna  expressed  herself  to 
Feodor  Ivanitcli,  with  regard  to  him,  in  the  fol- 
lowing phrase,  in  the  French  language  of  girls' 
institutes:  "  II  ny  a  plus  maintenant  de  ces  gens 
comme  f'«  com  me  autrefois."  Lemm,  with  the 
two  little  girls,  went  further  away,  to  the  dam; 
Lavretzky  placed  himself  beside  Liza.  The  fish 
bit  incessantly,  the  carp  w^hich  were  caught  were 
constantly  flashing  their  sides,  now  gold,  now 
silver,  in  the  air;  the  joyous  exclamations  of  the 
little  girls  w^ere  unceasing;  Marya  Dmitrievna 
herself  gave  vent  to  a  couple  of  shrill,  feminine 
shrieks.  I^avretzkv  and  Liza  caug-ht  few^er  than 
the  others;  tliis,  probably,  resulted  from  the  fact 
that  they  paid  less  attention  than  the  rest  to  their 
fishing,  and  allowed  their  floats  to  drift  close  in- 
shore. The  tall,  reddish  reeds  rustled  softly 
around  tliem,  in  front  of  them  the  motionless 
water  gleamed  softly,  and  their  conversation  was 

154. 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NKST 

soft  also.  Liza  stood  on  a  small  raft;  Lavrctzk}- 
sat  on  the  inclined  trunk  of  a  willow;  Liza  wore 
a  white  gown,  girt  about  tlie  waist  with  a  Ijroad 
ribbon,  also  white  in  hue;  her  straw  hat  was  hang- 
ing from  one  hand,  with  the  other,  slie  suj)i)()rte(l, 
with  some  effort,  the  curved  fishing-iod.  La- 
vretzky  gazed  at  the  pure,  rather  severe  profile, 
at  her  hair  tucked  behind  her  ears,  at  her  soft 
cheeks,  which  were  as  sunburned  as  those  of  a 
child, — and  said  to  himself:  "  ()  how  charm- 
ingl}^  thou  standest  on  my  pond!  "  T^iza  did  not 
turn  toward  him,  but  stared  at  the  water, — and 
half  smiled,  half  screwed  up  her  eyes.  The 
shadow  of  a  linden-tree  near  at  hand  fell  upon 
both  of  them. 

"Do  you  know,"^ — began  Lavretzky: — ^"  I 
have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  my  last 
conversation  with  vou,  and  have  come  to  the  con- 
elusion,  that  you  are  extraordinarily  kind." 

"  I  did  not  mean  it  in  that  way  at  all  ...  ." 
Liza  began, — and  was  overcome  with  shame. 

"  You  are  kind," — repeated  Lavretzky.  "  I 
am  a  rough  man,  but  I  feel  that  every  one  must 
love  you.  There  's  Lemm  now,  for  example:  he 
is  simply  in  love  with  you." 

Liza's  brows  quivered,  rather  than  contracted; 
this  always  happened  with  her  when  she  heard 
something"  disagreeable. 

"  I  felt  verv  sorrv  for  him  to-day," — Lavret- 

»  •  * 

zky  resumed: — "with  his  unsuccessful  romance. 

1.3.5 


k 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

To  be  youn^',  and  be  able  to  do  a  thing — that 
can  be  borne;  but  to  grow  old,  and  not  have  the 
power — is  painful.  And  the  offensive  thing 
about  it  is,  that  you  are  not  conscious  when  your 
powers  begin  to  wane.  It  is  difficult  for  an  old 
man  to  endiu'e  these  shocks!  ....  T^ook  out, 
the  fish  are  biting  at  your  hook.  .  .  They  say," 
— added  Lavret/ky,  after  a  brief  pause, — "  that 
Vladimir  Nikolaitch  has  written  a  very  pretty 
romance." 

"  Yes," — replied  Liza; — "  it  is  a  trifle,  but  it  is 
not  bad." 

"  And  M'hat  is  your  opinion," — asked  Lavret- 
zky: — "  is  he  a  good  musician?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  great  talent  for 
music;  ))ut  up  to  the  present  time  he  has  not  cul- 
tivated it  as  he  should." 

"  Exactly.    And  is  he  a  nice  man?  " 

Liza  laughed,  and  cast  a  quick  glance  at  Feo- 
dor  Ivanitch. 

"What  a  strange  question !  "—she  exclaimed, 
drawing  up  her  hook,  and  flinging  it  far  out 
again. 

*'  Why  is  it  strange? — I  am  asking  you  about 
him  as  a  man  who  has  recently  come  hither,  as 
your  relative." 

"  As  a  relative?  " 

"  Yes.  I  believe  I  am  a  sort  of  uncle  to 
you." 

"  Vladimir  Nikolaitch  has  a  kind  heart," — said 

156 


A  NOBT.E:\rAN\S  XEST 

Liza; — "he  is  clever;  inaninia  is  very  rond  of 
him." 

"  And  do  you  hke  him?  " 

"He  is  a  nice  man:  why  sliould  not  I  hke 
him?  " 

"Ah!" — said  Lavretzky,  and  icla[)s(,(!  into  si- 
lence. A  half-mournful,  half-sneerinn-  expres- 
sion flitted  across  his  face.  His  tenacious  gaze 
discomfited  Liza,  hut  she  continued  to  smile. 
"Well,  God  grant  them  hai)|)iness!  " — he  mut- 
tered, at  last,  as  though  to  himself,  and  turned 
away  his  head. 

Ijiza  hlushed. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Feodor  Ivaniteh," — she 
said: — "  there  is  no  cause  for  your  thinking  .... 
But  do  not  you  like  Vladimir  Xikolaitch?" 

"  I  do  not." 

"Why?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,  that  he  has  no  heart." 

The  smile  vanished  from  I^iza's  face. 

"  You  have  hecome  accustomed  to  judge  i)eo- 
ple  harshly," — she  said,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  I  think  not.  What  right  have  I  to  .judge 
others  harshly,  when  I  myself  stand  in  need  of 
indulgence?  Or  have  you  forgotten  that  a  hi/y 
man  is  the  only  one  who  does  not  laugh  at 
me?  ....  Well," — he  added: — "and  have  yon 
kept  your  promise?  " 

"  AVhat  promise?  " 

"  Have  you  prayed  for  me? " 

157 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  Yes,  I  have  prayed,  and  I  do  pray  for  you 
every  day.  But  please  do  not  speak  lightly  of 
that." 

Lavretzky  began  to  assure  Liza,  that  such  a 
thing  had  ne\'er  entered  his  head,  that  he  enter- 
tained a  profound  respect  for  all  convictions; 
then  he  entered  upon  a  discussion  of  religion, 
its  significance  in  the  history  of  mankind,  the 
significance  of  Christianity.  .  .  . 

"  One  must  be  a  Christian," — said  Liza,  not 
without  a  certain  effort: — "not  in  order  to  un- 
derstand heavenly  things yonder  .  .  . 

earthly  things,  but  because  every  man  must 
die." 

Lavretzk}^  with  in^'oluntary  surprise,  raised 
his  eyes  to  Liza's,  and  encountered  her  glance. 

"What  a  word  you  have  uttered!" — said 
he. 

"  The  word  is  not  mine," — she  replied. 

"  It  is  not  yours.  .  .  But  why  do  you  speak 
of  death?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.    I  often  think  about  it." 

"Often?" 

"  Yes." 

"  One  would  not  sav  so,  to  look  at  vou  now: 
you  have  such  a  merry,  bright  face,  you  are 
smiling " 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  merry  now," — returned  Liza, 
ingenuously. 

158 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Lavretzky  felt  like  seizing  both  Iicr  liaiids,  and 
clasping  them  tightly. 

"Liza,  Liza!" — called  INIarya  Dmitrievna, — 
"come  hither,  look!  What  a  carp  I  liave  caught!" 

"Immediately,  maman," — replied  Liza,  and 
went  to  her,  but  Lavretzky  remained  on  his  wil- 
low-tree. 

"  I  talk  with  her  as  though  I  were  not  a  man 
whose  life  is  finished,"  he  said  to  liimself.  As  she 
departed,  Liza  had  luuig  her  hat  on  a  bough; 
with  a  strange,  almost  tender  sentiment,  Lavret- 
zky gazed  at  the  hat,  at  its  long,  rather  crumpled 
ribbons.  Liza  speedily  returned  to  liim,  and 
again  took  up  her  stand  on  tlie  laft. 

"  Why  do  you  think  that  Vladimir  Nikolaiteh 
has  no  heart?  "- — she  inquired,  a  few  moments 
later. 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  that  I  may  be  mis- 
taken; however,  time  will  show." 

Liza  became  thoughtful.  I^avretzky  began  to 
talk  about  his  manner  of  life  at  Vasilievskoe, 
about  Mikhalevitch,  about  Anton;  he  felt  im- 
pelled to  talk  to  Liza,  to  communicate  to  her 
evervthinof  that  occurred  to  his  soul:  she  was  so 
charming,  she  listened  to  him  so  attentively;  her 
infrequent  comments  and  replies  seemed  to  liim 
so  simple  and  wise.    Pie  even  told  lier  so. 

Liza  was  amazed. 

"Really?"— she  said;— "why.  T  have  always 

159 


A  XOBLE:\rAX\S  XEST 

thought  that  1,  hke  my  maid  Xastya,  had  no 
woixls  oi"  my  own.  One  day  she  said  to  her  be- 
trotlu'd:  '  Tliou  must  find  it  tiresome  with  me; 
thou  always  sayest  such  fine  things  to  me,  but  I 
ha^•e  uo  words  of  my  own.'  " 

"And    thank    God    for   that!"    thought    La- 
vretzkv. 


100 


XXVII 

In  the  meantime,  evening  drew  on,  and  jNlarya 
Dmitrievna  expressed  a  desire  to  return  home. 
The  httle  girls  were,  with  difficulty,  torn  away 
from  the  pond,  and  made  ready.  Lavretzky  an- 
nounced his  intention  to  escort  his  guests  half 
way,  and  ordered  liis  horse  to  be  saddled.  As 
he  seated  Marya  Dmitrievna  in  the  carriage,  he 
remembered  Lemm ;  but  the  old  man  was  nowhere 
to  be  found.  He  had  disappeared  as  soon  as  the 
angling  was  over.  Anton  slammed  to  the  carriage 
door,  with  a  strength  remarkable  for  his  years, 
and  grimly  shouted:  "Drive  on,  coacliman!" 
The  carriage  rolled  off.  On  the  back  seat  sat 
Marya  Dmitrievna  and  Liza;  on  tlie  front  seat, 
the  little  girls  and  the  maid.  The  evening  was 
warm  and  still,  and  the  windows  were  lowered  on 
both  sides.  Lavretzky  rode  at  a  trot  bv  I-.iza's 
side  of  the  carriage,  with  his  hand  resting  on 
the  door, — he  had  dropped  the  reins  on  the  neck 
of  his  steed,  which  was  trotting  smoothly, — and 
from  time  to  time  exchanged  a  few  words  witli 
the  young  girl.  The  sunset  glow  vanished;  night 
descended,  and  the  air  grew  even  warmer.  ^Mtirya 
Dmitrievna  soon  fell  into  a  doze;  the  httle  girls 
and  the  maid  also  dropped  off  to  sleep.     The 

161 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

carriage  rolled  swiftly  and  smoothly  onward; 
Liza  leaned  forward;  the  moon,  which  had  just 
risen,  shone  on  her  face,  the  fragrant  night 
breeze  blew  on  her  cheeks  and  neck.  She  felt  at 
ease.  Her  hand  lay  on  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
alongside  of  Lavretzky's  hand.  And  he,  also, 
felt  at  ease:  he  was  being  borne  along  through 
tlie  tranquil  nocturnal  warmth,  never  taking  his 
eyes  from  the  kind  young  face,  listening  to  the 
youthful  voice,  which  was  ringing  even  in  a  whis- 
per, saying  simple,  kindly  things ;  he  did  not  even 
notice  that  he  had  passed  the  half-way  point.  He 
did  not  wish  to  awaken  ^larya  Dmitrievna, 
pressed  I^iza's  hand  lightly,  and  said: — "  We  are 
friends,  now,  are  we  not?  "  She  nodded,  he  drew 
up  his  horse.  The  carriage  rolled  on,  gently 
swaying  and  lurching:  Lavretzky  proceeded 
homeward  at  a  footpace.  The  w^itchery  of  the 
summer  night  took  possession  of  him ;  everything 
around  him  seemed  so  unexpectedly  strange,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  so  long,  so  sweetly  familiar ;  far 
and  near, — and  things  were  visible  at  a  long  dis- 
tance, although  the  eye  did  not  comprehend  much 
of  what  it  beheld, — everything  was  at  rest; 
young,  blossoming  life  made  itself  felt  in  that 
very  repose.  Lavretzky's  horse  walked  briskly, 
swaying  regularly  to  right  and  left;  its  huge 
])lack  shadow  kept  j^^ce  alongside;  there  was 
something  mysterioush^  pleasant  in  the  tramp  of 
its  Iioofs,  something  cheerful  and  wondrous  in  the 

162 


A  NOBLEMxVN'S  NEST 

resounding  call  of  the  quail.  The  stars  were  hid- 
den in  a  sort  of  hrilliant  smoke;  the  moon,  not  yet 
at  the  full,  shone  with  a  steady  gleam;  its  liglil 
flooded  the  hlue  sky  in  streams,  anil  fell  like  a 
stain  of  smoky  gold  upon  the  thin  cloudlets 
whicli  floated  past;  the  crispness  of  the  air  called 
forth  a  slight  moisture  in  the  eyes,  caressingly 
enveloped  all  the  limhs,  poured  in  an  abundant 
flood  into  the  breast.  Lavretzky  enjoyed  himself, 
and  rejoiced  at  his  enjoyment.  "  Come,  life  is 
still  before  us,"  he  thought : — "  it  has  not  been 

completely  ruined  yet  by "     He  did  not 

finish  his  sentence,  and  sav  who  or  Avhat  had 
ruined  it.  .  .  Then  he  began  to  think  of  Liza,  that 
it  was  hardly  likely  that  she  loved  Panshin;  that 
had  he  met  her  under  different  circumstances, — 
God  knows  what  miglit  have  come  of  it ;  that  he 
understood  Lemm,  although  she  had  no  "  words 
of  her  own."  Yes,  but  that  was  not  tiiie:  she 
had  words  of  her  own.  ..."  Do  not  speak 
lightly  of  that,"  recurred  to  I.avretzky's  memory. 
He  rode  for  a  long  time,  with  drooping  liead, 
then  he  straightened  himself  u[),  and  slowly 
recited : 

"  And  I  have  burned  all  that  I  worshipped, 
I  have  worshipped  all  that  I  burned  .   .   .   ." 

but  immediately  gave  his  horse  a  cut  with  the 
whip,  and  rode  at  a  gallop  all  the  rest  of  the  way 
home. 

163 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

xVs  he  alighted  from  his  horse,  he  cast  a  last 
«>lance  around  him,  with  an  involuntary,  grate- 
ful smile.  Night,  the  speechless,  caressing  night, 
lay  upon  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys;  from  afar, 
from  its  fragrant  depths,  God  knows  whence, — 
whether  from  heaven  or  earth, — emanated  a 
soft,  quiet  warmth.  Lavretzky  wafted  a  last 
salutation  to  I^iza,  and  ran  up  the  steps. 

The  following  day  passed  rather  languidly. 
Rain  fell  from  early  morning;  Lemm  cast  furtive 
glances  from  beneath  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed 
up  his  lips  more  and  more  tightly,  as  though  he 
had  vowed  to  himself  never  to  open  them  again. 
On  lying  do^vii  to  sleep,  Lavretzky  had  taken  to 
bed  with  him  a  whole  pile  of  French  newspaj^ers, 
which  had  already  been  lying  on  his  table  for 
two  weeks,  with  their  wrappers  unbroken.  He 
set  to  work  idly  to  strip  off  the  wrappers,  and 
glance 'through  the  columns  of  the  papers,  which, 
however,  contained  nothing  new.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  throwing  them  aside,— when,  all  of  a 
sudden,  he  sprang  out  of  bed  as  though  he  had 
been  stung.  In  the  feuilleton  of  one  of  the  pa- 
pers, IVI'sieu  Jules,  already  know^i  to  us,  imparted 
to  his  readers  "  a  sad  bit  of  news  ":  "  The  charm- 
ing, bewitching  native  of  Moscow,"  he  wrote, 
"  one  of  the  queens  of  fashion,  the  ornament  of 
Parisian  salons,  ^ladame  de  Lavretzki,  had  died 
almost  instantaneously, — and  this  news,  unhap- 
pily only  too  true,  had  only  just  reached  him, 

164 


A  NOBr.KMANS   XKST 

M.  Jules.    He  was," — he  continued,     "  li<   mi^lit 

say,  a  friend  of  tlie  deceased " 

Lavretzky  dressed  himself,  went  out  into  the 
garden,  and  until  morning  dawned,  he  paced 
back  and  forth  in  one  and  the  same  alley. 


165 


XXVIII 

On  the  following  morning,  at  tea,  Lemm  re- 
quested LaA'retzky  to  furnish  him  with  horses, 
tliat  he  might  return  to  town.  "It  is  time  that 
I  sliould  set  ahout  my  work, — that  is  to  say,  my 
lessons,"  remarked  the  old  man: — "but  here  I 
am  only  wasting  time  in  vain."  Lavretzky  did 
not  immediately  reply  to  him:  he  seemed  pre- 
occupied. "Very  well," — he  said  at  last; — ^"  I 
will  accompany  you  myself." — Without  any  aid 
from  the  servants,  grunting  and  fimiing,  Lemm 
packed  his  small  trunk,  and  tore  up  and  burned 
several  sheets  of  music-paper.  The  horses  were 
brought  round.  As  he  emerged  from  his  study, 
Lavretzky  thrust  into  his  pocket  the  newspaper 
of  the  day  before.  During  the  entire  journey, 
Lemm  and  Lavretzky  had  very  little  to  say  to 
each  other:  each  of  them  was  engrossed  with  his 
own  thoughts,  and  each  was  delighted  that  the 
other  did  not  disturb  him.  And  they  parted  rather 
coldly, — which,  by  the  way,  frequently  happens 
between  friends  in  Russia.  Lavretzky  drove  the 
old  man  to  his  tiny  house:  the  latter  alighted,  got 
out  his  trunk,  and  without  offering  his  hand  to 
his  friend  (he  held  liis  trunk  in  front  of  his  chest 

160 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

with  both  hands),  without  even  looking-  at  him, — 
he  said  in  Russian:  "  (rood-bye,  sir!" — "  (xood- 
bye," — repeated  Eavretzky,  and  ordered  liis 
coachman  to  drive  him  to  his  own  lodgings.  (He 
had  hired  a  lodging  in  the  town  of  ()  *  *  *  in 
case  he  might  require  it.)  After  writing  several 
letters  and  dining  in  haste,  I..avretzky  took  his 
way  to  the  Kalitins.  In  their  drawing-ioom  he 
found  no  one  but  Panshin,  who  informed  liini 
that  JNIarya  Dmitrievna  would  be  down  directly, 
and  immediately  entered  into  conversation  with 
him,  with  the  most  cordial  amiability.  Up  to 
that  day,  Panshin  had  treated  Lavretzky,  not  ex- 
actly in  a  patronizing  way,  yet  condescendingly; 
but  Liza,  in  telling  Panshin  about  her  jaunt  of 
the  day  before,  had  expressed  herself  to  the  effect 
that  Lavretzky  was  a  very  fine  and  clever  man; 
that  was  enough:  the  "  very  fine  "  man  must  be 
captivated.  Panshin  began  with  compliments  to 
Lavretzky,  with  descriptions  of  the  raptures  with 
which,  according  to  his  statement,  ]Marya  Dmi- 
trievna's  whole  family  had  expressed  themselves 
about  Vasilievskoe,  and  then,  according  to  his 
wont,  passing  adroitly  to  himself,  he  began  to 
talk  about  his  own  occupations,  his  views  of  life, 
of  the  world,  of  the  government  service; — he  said 
a  couple  of  words  about  the  future  of  Russia, 
about  the  proper  v/ay  of  keeping  the  governors 
in  hand;  thereupon,  merrily  jeered  at  himself, 
and  added,  that,  among  other  things,  he  had  been 

107 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

commissioned  in  Petersburg — "dc  populariser 
Vidcc  du  cadastre/'  He  talked  for  quite  a  long 
time,  ^vitll  careless  self-confidence  solving  all  dif- 
ficulties, and  juggling  with  the  most  weighty  ad- 
ministrative and  political  questions,  as  a  sleight- 
of-hand  performer  juggles  with  liis  balls.  The 
expressions:  "  This  is  what  I  would  do,  if  I  were 
the  government  " ;  "  You,  as  a  clever  man,  will 
immediately  agree  with  me  " — were  never  absent 
from  his  tongue.  Lavretzky  listened  coldly  to 
Panshin's  idle  chatter:  he  did  not  like  this  hand- 
some, clever,  and  unconstrainedly  elegant  man, 
with  his  brilliant  smile,  courteous  voice,  and 
searching  eyes.  Panshin  speedily  divined,  with 
the  swift  comprehension  of  other  peoj^le's  senti- 
ments which  was  peculiar  to  him,  that  he  was  not 
affording  his  interlocutor  any  particular  pleasure, 
and  made  his  escape,  under  a  plausible  pretext,  de- 
ciding in  his  own  mind  that  Lavretzky  might  be 
a  very  fine  man,  but  that  he  was  not  sympathetic, 
was  ''aigri,"  and,  ''  en  somme"  rather  ridiculous. 
— INIarya  Dmitrievna  made  her  appearance  ac- 
companied by  Gedeonovsky;  then  JNIarfa  Timo- 
feevna  entered  with  I^iza;  after  them  followed  the 
other  members  of  the  household;  then  came  that 
lover  of  music,  INIme.  Byelenitzyn,  a  small,  thin 
lady,  with  an  almost  childish,  fatigued  and  hand- 
some little  face,  in  a  rustling  black  gown,  with  a 
motley-hued  fan,  and  heavy  gold  bracelets;  her 
husband  also  came,  a  rosy-cheeked,  plump  man, 

168 


A  XOHLEMAN'S   XKST 

with  huge  feet  and  hands,  ^vith  wliite  evelashes, 
and  an  ini|)assive  smile  on  liis  thiek  hps;  in  com- 
pany his  wife  never  spoke  to  him,  l)iit  at  liomc 
in  moments  of  tenderness,  she  was  wont  to  call 
liim  "  lier  little  ])ig";  Panshin  returned:  the 
rooms  became  very  full  of  peo])le  and  very  noisy. 
Such  a  throng  of  peo])le  was  not  to  La\retzky's 
liking;  ]\Ime.  Byelenit/yn  ])articulai-ly  enraged 
him  by  constantly  staring  at  him  throuiili  hei- 
lorgnette.  He  would  have  withdrawn  at  once, 
had  it  not  been  for  Liza:  he  wished  to  say  two 
words  to  her  in  private,  but  for  a  long  time  he 
was  not  able  to  seize  a  convenient  moment,  and 
contented  himself  with  watching  her  in  secret 
joy;  never  had  her  face  seemed  to  him  more  nohic 
and  charming.  She  appeared  to  great  a(haii- 
tage  from  the  proximity  of  Mme.  Byelenitzyn. 
The  latter  was  incessantly  fidgeting  about  on 
her  chair,  shrugging  her  narrow  little  shoidders, 
laughing,  in  an  enervated  way,  and  screwing  uj) 
her  eyes,  then  suddenly  opening  them  very  wide. 
Liza  sat  quietly,  her  gaze  was  direct,  and  she  did 
not  laugh  at  all.  The  hostess  sat  down  to  play 
cards  w^ith  Marfa  Timofeevna,  Mme.  l^yelenit- 
zyn,  and  Gedeonovsky,  who  played  very  slo\\ly, 
was  constantly  making  mistakes,  blinking  his 
eyes,  and  mopping  his  face  with  his  ha'ul- 
kerchief.  Panshin  assumed  a  melancholy  mien, 
expressed  himself  with  brevity,  with  great  sig- 
nificance and  mournfulness, — for  all   the   world 

1()9 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

like  an  artist  who  has  not  had  his  say, — but  de- 
spite the  entreaties  of  ^Ime.  Byelenitzyn,  who 
was  having  a  a  iolent  flirtation  with  him,  he  would 
not  consent  to  sing  his  romance:  Lavretzky 
embarrassed  him.  Feodor  Ivanitch  also  said 
little;  the  peculiar  expression  of  his  face  had 
startled  Liza,  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room :  she 
immediately  felt  that  he  had  something  to  com- 
municate to  her,  but,  without  herself  knowing 
wliy,  she  was  afraid  to  interrogate  him.  At  last, 
as  she  passed  into  the  hall  ^  to  pour  tea,  she  invol- 
untarily turned  her  head  in  his  direction.  He 
immediately  followed  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter  wdth  you?  " — she  said,  as 
she  placed  the  teapot  on  the  samovar. 

"  Have  you  noticed  it?  " 

"  You  are  not  the  same  to-day  as  I  have  seen 
vou  heretofore." 

Lavretzky  bent  over  the  table. 

"  I  wanted," — he  began, — "  to  tell  you  a  cer- 
tain piece  of  news,  but  now  it  is  not  possible. — 
However,  read  w^hat  is  marked  with  pencil  in 
this  feuilleton," — he  added,  giving  her  the  copy 
of  the  newspaper  which  he  had  brought  with  him. 
— "  I  beg  that  you  will  keep  this  secret ;  I  will 
call  on  you  to-morrow  morning." 

I^iza  was  surprised.  .  .  Panshin  made  his  ap- 
pearance on  the  threshold  of  the  door:  she  put 
the  newspaper  in  lier  pocket. 

'  A  conjl)ination  of  music-room,  ball-room,  play-room,  also  used  for 
all  sorts  of  purposes,  in  all  wclMo-do  Russian  houses.— Translatou. 

170 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NKST 

"  Have  you  read  Obermann,  Lizaveta  Mikhai- 
lovna?  " — Panshin  asked  her  meditatively. 

Liza  gave  him  a  superfieial  answer,  left  the 
hall,  and  went  up-stairs.  Lavretzky  retui'iied  to 
the  drawing-room,  and  approached  the  eai'd- 
table.  JNIarfa  Timofeevna,  with  her  eap-ril)l)<)ns 
mitied,  and  red  in  the  face,  began  to  comi)Iaiii  to 
him  about  her  partner,  Gedeonovsky,  who,  ac- 
cording to  her,  did  not  know  how  to  lead. 

"  Evidently," — she  said, — "  playing  cards  is 
quite  a  different  thing  from  inventing  fibs." 

Her  partner  continued  to  blink  and  mop  his 
face.  I^iza  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  seated 
herself  in  a  corner;  Lavretzky  looked  at  her,  she 
looked  at  him, — and  something  like  dread  fell 
upon  them  both.  He  read  surprise  and  a  sort  of 
secret  reproach  in  her  face.  I^ong  as  he  might  to 
talk  to  her,  he  could  not  do  it;  to  remain  in  the 
same  room  with  her,  a  guest  among  strangers, 
was  painful  to  him:  he  decided  to  go  away.  As 
he  took  leave  of  her,  he  managed  to  repeat  that 
he  would  come  on  the  morrow,  and  he  added  tliat 
he  trusted  in  her  friendship. 

"  Come,"- — she  replied,  with  the  same  amaze- 
ment on  her  face. 

Panshin  brightened  up  after  Lavretzky's  de- 
parture; he  began  to  give  advice  to  Gedeonovsky, 
banteringly  paid  court  to  ^Ime.  Byelenitzyn, 
and,  at  last,  sang  his  romance.  But  he  talked  \vitli 
Liza  and  gazed  at  her  as  before:  significantly  and 
rather  sadly. 

171 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

^Vnd  again,  Lavretzky  did  not  sleep  all  night 
long.  He  did  not  feel  sad,  he  was  not  excited, 
he  had  grown  altogether  calm;  hut  he  could  not 
sleep.  He  did  not  even  recall  the  past ;  he  simply 
gazed  at  his  life:  his  heart  beat  strongly  and 
evenly,  the  hours  flew  past,  but  he  did  not  even 
think  of  sleeping.  At  times,  only,  did  the  thought 
come  to  the  surface  in  his  mind:  "  But  that  is  not 
true,  it  is  all  nonsense," — and  he  paused,  lowered 
his  head,  and  began  again  to  gaze  at  his  life. 


172 


XXIX 

Marya  Dmitrievna  (lid  not  receive  I^avretzky 
with  any  excess  of  cordiality,  when  he  presented 
himself  on  the  following  day.  "  Well,  you  are 
making  yourself  pretty  free  of  the  house," — she 
said  to  herself.  Personally,  he  did  not  greatly 
please  her,  and,  in  addition,  Panshin,  under  whose 
influence  she  was,  had  sung  his  praises  in  a  very 
sly  and  careless  manner  on  tlie  preceding  even- 
ing. As  she  did  not  look  upon  him  in  the  light 
of  a  guest,  and  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to 
trouble  herself  about  a  relative  almost  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family,  half  an  hour  had  not  elapsed 
before  he  was  strolling  down  an  alley  in  the 
garden  with  Liza.  Lyenotchka  and  Schurotchka 
were  frolicking  a  sliort  distance  away,  among  the 
flower-beds. 

Liza  was  composed,  as  usual,  but  paler  than 
usual.  She  took  from  her  pocket  and  handed  to 
Lavretzky  the  sheet  of  newspaper,  folded  small. 

"  This  is  dreadful!  "—said  she. 

Lavretzky  made  no  reply. 

"  But  perhaps  it  is  not  yet  true," — added  Liza. 

"  That  is  why  I  asked  you  not  to  mention  it 
to  any  one." 

173 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

Liza  walked  on  a  little  waj\ 

"  Tell  iiie," — she  began : — "  you  are  not 
grieved^    Not  in  the  least?" 

"  1  do  not  know  myself  what  my  feelings  are," 
— replied  Lavretzky. 

"  Bnt,  assnredlv,  vou  used  to  love  her?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  Very  much? " 

"  Very  much." 

"  And  you  are  not  grieved  by  her  death? " 

"  It  is  not  now  that  she  has  died  to  me." 

"  ^Vhat  you  say  is  sinful.  .  .  .  Do  not  be 
angry  Avith  me.  You  call  me  your  friend:  a 
friend  may  say  anything.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
feel  terrified.  .  .  .  Your  face  was  so  malign 
yesterday.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember,  how  you 
were  complaining  of  her,  not  long  ago? — and 
perhaps,  already,  at  that  very  time,  she  was  no 
longer  alive.  This  is  terrible.  It  is  exactly  as 
though  it  had  been  sent  to  you  as  a  chastise- 
ment." 

Lavretzky  laughed  bitterly. 

"Do  you  tliink  so?  .  .  .  At  all  events,  I  am 
free  now." 

Liza  gave  a  slight  start. 

"  Stop,  do  not  talk  like  that.  Of  what  use 
to  you  is  your  freedom?  You  must  not  think 
about  that  now,  but  about  forgiveness.  .  ." 

"  I  forgave  her  long  ago," — interrupted  La- 
vretzky, A\itli  a  w'ave  of  the  hand. 

174 


"  xr. 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

No,  not  that," — retiinitd  l.i/a,  and  lihislicd. 

You    did    not    understand    nie    ri^litly.      You 
must  take  means  to  obtain  foigiveness.  .  .  ." 

"  Wlio  is  there  to  forgive  me^' 

"Who?— God.  Who  else  In.t  (Jod  ean  for- 
give  usf 

Lavretzkv  cauglit  hei-  liand. 

"  Akh,  Lizaveta  Mikliailovna,  heheve  riie," — 
he  exclaimed: — "I  have  been  sutHeiently  \n\\\- 
ished  as  it  is.  I  have  already  atoned  for  c\eiy- 
thing,  believe  me." 

"You  cannot  know  that," — said  Liza  in  a 
low  voice.  "  You  have  forgotten; — not  \ery 
long  ago, — when  you  were  talking  to  me, — you 
were  not  willing  to  forgive  her.  .  .  ." 

The  two  walked  silently  down  the  allev. 

"  And  how  about  vour  daughter?  " — Liza  sud- 
denly  inquired,  and  halted. 

Lavretzk}^  started. 

"  Oh,  do  not  worry  yourself!  I  ha\e  already 
despatched  letters  to  all  the  proper  places.  Tlie 
future  of  my  daughter,  as  you  call  ....  as  you 
say  ...  is  assured.     Do  not  disquiet  yourself." 

Liza  smiled  sadly. 

"  But  you  are  right," — went  on  Lavi'etzky: — 
"  what  can  I  do  with  my  freedom?  Of  what  use 
is  it  to  me?  " 

"When  did  you  receive  tliat  news])aj)er?  " — 
said  Liza,  making  no  reply  to  his  (piestion. 

"  The  day  after  your  visit." 

175 


A  XOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

*'  And  is  it  possible  ....  is  it  possible  that 
you  did  not  even  weep?  " 

"  Xo.  I  was  stunned ;  but  where  were  the  tears 
to  come  from?  Weep  over  the  past, — but,  you 
see,  it  is  entirely  extirpated  in  my  case!  .... 
Her  behaviour  itself  did  not  destroy  my  happi- 
ness, but  merely  proved  to  me  that  it  had  never 
existed.  What  was  there  to  cry  about?  But, 
who  knows? — perhaps  I  should  have  been  more 
grieved  if  I  had  received  this  news  two  weeks 
earlier " 

"  Two  weeks?  " — returned  Liza.  "  But  what 
has  happened  in  those  two  weeks?" 

Lavretzky  made  no  answer,  and  Liza  suddenly 
blushed  more  fm*iouslv  than  before. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  have  guessed  it," — interposed 
Lavretzky: — "in  the  course  of  those  two  weeks 
I  have  learned  what  a  pure  woman's  soul  is  like, 
and  my  past  has  retreated  still  fiu'ther  from  me." 

Liza  became  confused,  and  softly  M^alked 
toward  the  flow^er-garden,  to  Lyenotchka  and 
Schurotchka. 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  shown  you  this 
newspaper," — said  Lavretzky,  as  he  followed 
her: — "  I  have  already  contracted  the  habit  of 
concealing  nothing  from  you,  and  I  hope  that 
you  will  repay  me  with  tlie  same  confidence." 

"Do  you  think  so?  "^ — said  Liza,  and  stopped 

short.     "  In  that  case,  I  ought  to but 

no!   That  is  impossible." 

176 


A  NOHLKMAWS   XKST 

"  What  is  it?   Speak,  speak!  " 

"  Really,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  ought  not.  .  .  . 
However,"  added  Liza,  and  turned  to  Lavi-etzky 
with  a  smile: — "  what  is  half-frankness  worths — 
Do  vou  know?   I  received  a  letter  to-dav." 

"  From  Panshin?  " 

"  Yes,  from  him How  did  you  know!'" 

"  He  asks  your  hand?  " 

"  Yes," — uttered  I^iza,  and  looked  seriously 
in  Lavretzky's  eyes. 

Lavretzky,  in  his  turn,  gazed  seriously  at  Liza. 

"  Well,  and  what  reply  have  you  made  to 
him?  " — he  said  at  last. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  re[)ly  to  make," — replied 
Liza,  and  dropped  her  clasped  hands. 

"What?    Surely,  you  like  him?" 

"Yes,  he  pleases  me;  he  seems  to  he  a  nice 
man.  .  .  ." 

"  You  said  the  same  thing  to  me,  in  those  very 
same  words,  three  days  ago.  What  I  want  to 
know  is,  whether  you  love  him  with  tliat  strong, 
passionate  feeling  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
call  love?  " 

"  As  you  understand  it,-  -no." 

"  You  are  not  in  love  with  him?" 

"  No.     But  is  that  necessary?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is!  " 

"Mamma  likes  him,"  pursued  Liza:— "he 
is  amiahle;  I  have  nothing  against  him." 

"  Still,  you  are  wavering?  " 

177 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  Yes  .  .  .  and  perhaj^s, — your  words  may  be 
the  cause  of  it.  Do  you  remember  what  you  said 
day  l)efore  yesterday^   But  that  weakness  .  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  my  cliild!" — suddenly  exclaimed  La- 
vretzky^ — and  his  voice  trembled: — "do  not 
argue  artfully,  do  not  designate  as  weakness  the 
cry  of  \our  heart,  which  does  not  wish  to  surren- 
der  itself  without  love.  Do  not  take  upon  your- 
self that  terrible  responsibility  toward  a  man 
whom  you  do  not  love  and  to  whom  you  do  not 
wish  to  belong.  .  .  .' 

"  I  am  listening, — I  am  taking  nothing  u])on 
myself.  .   ."  Liza  was  beginning. 

"  Listen  to  your  heart;  it  alone  will  tell  you  the 
truth," — I^avretzky  interrupted  her.  .  .  "  Ex- 
perience, reasoning — all  that  is  stuff  and  non- 
sense! Do  not  deprive  yourself  of  the  best,  the 
only  happiness  on  earth." 

"  Is  it  you,  Feodor  Ivanitch,  who  are  speak- 
ing thus?  You,  yourself,  married  for  love — and 
were  you  happy?  " 

Lavretzky  wrung  his  hands. 

"  Akh,  do  not  talk  to  me  of  that !  You  cannot 
even  understand  all  that  a  young,  untried,  ab- 
surdly educated  lad  can  mistake  for  love!  .  .  . 
Yes,  and  in  short,  why  calumniate  one's  self?  I 
just  told  you,  that  I  had  not  known  happiness 
....  no!   I  was  hap])y!  " 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Feodor  Ivanitch, "^ — said 
Liza,  lo\vering  her  voice  (when  she  did  not  agree 

178 


A  NOBT.EMAN'S  XKST 

with  her  mterlocutor,  she  always  lowered  Ik  i- 
voiee;  and,  at  the  same  time,  she  heeame  gieatlv 
agitated)  :-"  happiness  on  earth  does  not  (K- 
pend  upon  us.  .  .  .' 

"  It  does,  it  does  depend  upon  us,  Ijclieve  me  " 
(he  seized  both  her  hands;  Liza  turned  [)ale,  and 
gazed  at  him  almost  in  terror,  l)iil  with  atten- 
tion) : — "  if  only  we  have  not  ruined  our  own 
lives.  For  some  people,  a  love-marriage  may 
prove  unhappy;  hut  not  for  you,  with  your  calm 
temperament,  M'ith  your  clear  soul!  I  entreat 
you,  do  not  marry  without  love,  from  a  sense  of 

duty,  of  renunciation,  or  anything  else 

That,  also,  is  want  of  faith,  that  is  calculation, — 
and  even  worse.  Believe  me, — I  have  a  right  to 
speak  thus:  I  have  paid  dearly  for  that  right. 
And  if  your  God  .  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment,  T^avretzky  noticed  that  Lye- 
notchka  and  Schurotchka  were  standing  beside 
Liza,  and  staring  at  him  with  dumb  amazement. 
He  released  Liza's  hands,  said  hastily:  "  Pray 
pardon  me," — and  walked  toward  the  house. 

"  I  have  only  one  request  to  make  of  you," — 
he  said,  returning  to  Liza: — "do  not  decide  in- 
stantly, wait,  think  over  what  I  have  said  to  you. 
Even  if  you  have  not  believed  me,  if  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  a  marriage  of  reason, — 
even  in  that  case,  you  ought  not  to  marry  Mr. 
Panshin:  he  cannot  be  your  luisband.  .  .  . 
Promise  me,  will  you  not.  not  to  be  in  a  hurry  ^  " 

179 


A  x()blp:max's  nest 

Liza  tried  to  answer  Lavretzky,  but  did  not 
utter  a  word, — not  because  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  "  to  be  in  a  liurry  ";  but  because  her  heart 
was  beating  too  violently,  and  a  sensation  re- 
sembling fear  had  stopped  her  breath. 


180 


XXX 

As  he  was  leaving  the  Kah'tins'  house,  Lavretzky 
encountered  Panshin;  thev  sahitcd  each  other 
coldly.  Lavretzky  went  home  to  his  ai)artnient, 
and  locked  himself  in.  He  experienced  a  sensa- 
tion such  as  he  had,  in  all  proha])iIity,  never  ex- 
perienced before.  Had  he  remained  lon^-  in  that 
state  of  "  peaceful  numbness  "?  had  lie  long  con- 
tinued to  feel,  as  he  liad  expressed  it,  "  at  tlie  bot- 
tom of  the  river"?  AVhat  had  altered  his  posi- 
tion? what  had  brought  him  out,  to  tlie  surface? 
the  most  ordinary,  inevitable  though  always  un- 
expected  of  events; — death?  Yes:  but  he  (hd 
not  tliink  so  much  about  tlie  death  of  his  wife, 
about  his  freedom,  as, — what  sort  of  answer 
would  Liza  give  to  Panshin:'  He  was  conscious 
that,  in  the  course  of  the  last  three  days,  he  had 
come  to  look  upon  her  with  different  eyes;  he  re- 
called how,  on  returning  home,  and  tliinking 
about  her  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  he  had  said 
to  himself:  "  If  .  .  .  ."  That  "  if,"  wherein  he 
had  alluded  to  the  past,  to  the  inii)ossible,  had 
come  to  pass,  although  not  in.  tlie  way  lie  had  an- 
ticipated,— but  this  was  little  in  itself.  "  She  will 
obey  her  mother,"  he  thought,  "  she  will  marry 

181 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

ranshin;  but  even  if  she  refuses  him, — is  it  not 
all  tlie  same  to  me?  "  As  he  passed  in  front  of 
the  mirror,  he  cast  a  cursory  glance  at  his  face, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

The  day  sped  swiftly  by  in  these  reflections; 
evening  arrived.  Lavretzkv  wended  his  way  to 
the  Kalitins.  He  walked  briskly,  but  approached 
their  house  with  lingering  steps.  In  front  of  the 
steps  stood  Piinshin's  drozhky.  "  Come," — 
thought  Ijavretzky, — "  I  will  not  be  an  egoist," 
and  entered  the  house.  Inside  he  met  no  one, 
and  all  was  still  in  the  drawing-room;  he  opened 
the  door,  and  beheld  Marya  Dmitrievna,  playing 
picquet  with  Ptinshin.  Panshin  bowed  to  him 
in  silence,  and  the  mistress  of  the  house  uttered 
a  little  scream: — "How  unexpected!" — and 
frowned  slightly.  I^avretzky  took  a  seat  by  her 
side,  and  began  to  look  over  her  cards. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  play  picquet?" — 
she  asked  him,  with  a  certain  dissembled  vexa- 
tion, and  immediately  announced  that  she  dis- 
carded. 

Panshin  reckoned  up  ninety,  and  politely  and 
calmly  began  to  gather  up  the  tricks,  with  a 
severe  and  dignified  expression  on  his  coun- 
tenance. That  is  the  way  in  which  diplomats 
should  play;  probably,  that  is  the  way  in  which 
he  was  wont  to  play  in  Petersburg,  with  some 
powerful  dignitary,  whom  he  desired  to  impress 
with  a  favourable  opinion  as  to  his  solidity  and 

182 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NKST 

maturity.  "  One  hundred  and  one,  one  liuudivd 
and  two,  hearts;  one  hun(h-ed  and  three,"— ran^- 
out  his  measured  tone,  and  Lavretzky  eould  not 
understand  what  note  resounded  in  it:  reproach 
or  self-conceit. 

"Is  Marfa  Timofeevna  to  he  seen?" — lie 
asked,  observing  that  Panshin,  still  with  great 
dignity,  was  heginning  to  shuffle  the  cards.  Not 
a  trace  of  the  artist  was,  as  yet,  to  be  observed  in 
him. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  She  is  in  her  own  apart- 
ments, up-stairs," — replied  jNItirya  Dmitrievna: 
- — "  you  had  better  inquire." 

Lavretzky  went  up-stairs,  and  found  Marfa 
Timofeevna  at  cards  also:  she  was  playing 
duratchki  (fools)  with  Nastasya  Karpovna. 
Roska  barked  at  him;  but  both  the  old  ladies  wel- 
comed him  cordially,  and  jNIarfa  Timofeevna,  in 
particular,  seemed  to  be  in  high  spirits. 

"Ah!  Fedya!  Pray  come  in," — she  said: — 
"  sit  down,  my  dear  little  father.  AVe  shall  be 
through  our  game  directly.  AVouldst  thou  like 
some  preserves?  Schurotchka,  get  him  a  jar  of 
strawberries.  Thou  dost  not  want  it  ?  \Vell,  then 
sit  as  thou  art;  but  as  for  smoking — thou  must 
not:  I  cannot  bear  thy  tobacco,  and.  moreover,  it 
makes  JMatros  sneeze." 

Lavretzky  made  haste  to  assert  that  he  did 
not  care  to  smoke. 

"Hast  thou  been  down-stairs?" — went  on  the 

183 


() 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

1(1  woniaii:— "  whom  didst  thou  see  there?  Is 
Panshin  still  on  hand,  as  usual?  And  didst  thou 
see  Liza?  No?  She  intended  to  come  hither.  .  .  . 
Yes,  there  she  is;  speak  of  an  angel.  .  ." 

Liza  entered  the  room  and,  on  perceiving  La- 
vretzky,  she  blushed. 

"  I  have  run  in  to  see  you  for  a  minute,  JNIarfa 
Timofeevna,"  she  began.  .  .  . 

"Why  for  a  minute?" — returned  the  old 
woman.  "  ^Vhat  makes  all  you  young  girls  such 
restless  creatures?  Thou  seest,  that  I  have  a 
visitor:  chatter  to  him,  entertain  him." 

Liza  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair, 
raised  her  eyes  to  Lavretzkv, — and  felt  that  it 
was  impossible  not  to  give  him  to  understand  how 
her  interview  with  Panshin  had  ended.  But  how 
was  that  to  be  done?  She  felt  both  ashamed  and 
awkward.  She  had  not  been  acquainted  with 
him  long,  with  that  man  who  both  went  rarely 
to  church  and  bore  with  so  much  indifference 
the  death  of  liis  wife, — and  here  she  was  already 
imparting  her  secrets  to  him.  .  .  .  He  took  an  in- 
terest in  her,  it  is  true;  she,  herself,  trusted  him, 
and  felt  attracted  to  him;  but,  nevertheless,  she 
felt  ashamed,  as  though  a  stranger  had  entered 
her  pure,  virgin  chamber. 

]Marfa  Timofeevna  came  to  her  assistance. 

"  If  thou  wilt  not  entertain  him," — she  began, 
"  who  will  entertain  him,  poor  fellow?  I  am  too 
old  for  him,  he  is  too  clever  for  me,  and  for 

184 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Nastasya  Karpovna  lie  is  too  old,  you  must  give 
her  nothing  but  very  young  men." 

"How  can  I  entertain  Feodor  Tvauiteh^'— 
said  Liza. — "  Tf  he  hkes,  1  will  play  something 
for  him  on  the  piano," — she  added,  irresolutely. 

"  Very  good  indeed:  that 's  mj'  clever  girl," — 
replied  INIarfa  Timofeevna, — "  Go  down-stairs, 
my  dear  people;  when  you  are  through,  come 
back ;  for  I  have  been  left  the  '  fool,'  and  I  feel 
insulted,  and  want  to  win  back." 

Liza  rose:  Lavretzky  followed  her.  As  they 
were  descending  the  staircase,  Liza  halted. 

"They  tell  the  truth," — she  began: — "when 
they  say  that  the  hearts  of  men  are  full  of  contra- 
dictions. Your  example  ought  to  frighten  me, 
to  render  me  distrustful  of  marriage  for  love, 
but  I " 

"You  have  refused  him?" — interrupted  La- 
vretzky. 

"No;  but  I  have  not  accepted  him.  I  told 
him  everything,  everything  that  I  felt,  and  asked 
him  to  wait.  iVre  you  satisfied?  " — she  added, 
with  a  swift  smile, — and  lightly  touching  the 
railing  with  her  hand,  she  ran  down  the  stairs. 

"  What  shall  I  play  for  you?  "—she  asked,  as 
she  raised  the  lid  of  the  piano. 

"  Whatever  you  like," — replied  Lavretzky, 
and  seated  himself  in  such  a  position  that  he  could 
watch  her. 

Liza  began  to  play,  and,  for  a  long  time,  never 

185 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

took  her  eyes  from  her  lingers.  At  last,  she 
o-lanced  at  I.avretzky,  and  stopped  short:  so  won- 
derl'nl  and  strange  did  his  face  appear  to  her. 

"  ^Vllat  is  the  matter  with  you?" — she  asked. 

"  Notliing,"— he  rephed:— "all  is  very  well 
with  me;  I  am  glad  for  j^ou,  I  am  glad  to  look  at 
you, — go  on.  ' 

"  It  seems  to  me," — said  Liza,  a  few  moments 
later: — "  that  if  he  really  loved  me,  he  would  not 
liave  written  that  letter ;  he  ought  to  have  felt  that 
I  could  not  answer  him  noW'." 

"  That  is  of  no  importance," — said  Lavretzky: 
— "  the  important  point  is,  that  you  do  not  love 

him." 

"  Stop, — w'hat  sort  of  a  conversation  is  this!  I 
keep  having  visions  of  your  dead  w^ife,  and  you 
are  terrible  to  me !  " 

"  ]\Iy  Lizeta  plays  charmingly,  does  she  not, 
Valdemar?" — ^larya  Umitrievna  was  saying  to 
Panshin  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Yes,"  —  replied  Panshin ;  —  "  very  charm- 
ingly." 

^larya  Dmitrievna  gazed  tenderly  at  her 
young  partner;  but  the  latter  assumed  a  still  more 
important  and  careworn  aspect,  and  announced 
fourteen  kings. 


186 


XXXI 

Lavretzky  was  not  a  young  man;  he  could  not 
long  deceive  liiniself  as  to  the  sentiments  witli 
which  Liza  had  inspired  him;  he  })ecame  defin- 
itively convinced,  on  that  day,  that  lie  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her.  This  conviction  hrought  no 
great  joy  to  him.  "  Is  it  possihle,"  he  tliought, 
"  that  at  the  age  of  five  and  thirty  I  liave  notiiing 
hetter  to  do  than  to  put  my  soul  again  into  tlie 
hands  of  a  woman?  But  Liza  is  not  like  iliat  one: 
she  would  not  require  from  me  shameful  sacri- 
fices; she  would  not  draw  me  away  from  m\'  oc- 
cupations;  she  herself  would  encourage  me  to 
honourable,  severe  toil,  and  we  would  advance  to- 
gether toward  a  fine  goal.  Yes,"  lie  wound  uj) 
his  meditations: — "all  that  is  good,  but  the  bad 
thing  is,  that  she  will  not  in  the  least  wisli  to 
marry  me.  It  was  not  for  nothing  tliat  she  told 
me,  that  I  am  terrible  to  her.  On  the  other  hand, 
she  does  not  love  that  Panshin  either.  ...  A  jxxn* 
consolation !  " 

Lavretzky  rode  out  to  Vasilievskoe ;  but  he  did 
not  remain  four  days, — it  seemed  so  irksome  to 
him  there.  He  was  tortured,  also,  by  ex])ectaiK\  : 
the   information    imparted    by   JNl — r.   .Tnles    n- 

187 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

quired  contirniation,  and  he  had  received  no  let- 
ters. He  returned  to  the  town,  and  sat  out  the 
evening  at  the  Kah'tins'.  It  was  easy  for  hirA 
to  see,  that  ^Nlarya  Dniitrievna  had  risen  in  revolt 
against  him;  but  he  succeeded  in  appeasing  her 
somewhat  by  losing  fifteen  rubles  to  her  at 
picquet, — and  he  spent  about  half  an  hour  alone 
M'ith  Liza,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  mother, 
no  longer  ago  than  the  day  before,  had  advised 
her  not  to  be  too  familiar  with  a  man  ''qui  a  un  si 
grand  ridicule/'  He  found  a  change  in  her:  she 
seemed,  somehow,  to  have  become  more  thought- 
ful, she  upbraided  him  for  his  absence,  and  asked 
him — would  he  not  go  to  church  on  the  following 
morning  (the  next  day  was  Sunday)  ? 

"  Go," — she  said  to  him,  before  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  replying: — "  we  w'\\\  pray  together  for 
the  repose  of  her  soul." — Then  she  added,  that 
she  did  not  know  what  she  ought  to  do, — she  did 
not  know  whether  she  had  the  right  to  make 
Panshin  wait  any  longer  for  her  decision. 

"  Why?  "—asked  Lavretzky. 

"Because," — said  she:  "I  am  already  begin- 
ning to  suspect  what  that  decision  will  be." 

She  declared  that  her  liead  ached,  and  went 
off  to  her  own  room  up-stairs,  irresolutely  offer- 
ing Lavretzky  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

The  next  <\&.y,  Lavretzky  went  to  the  morning 
service.  Liza  was  already  in  tlie  cliurch  when 
he  arrived.     She  observed  liim,  although  she  did 

188 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

not  turn  toward  him.  She  prayed  devoutly;  lier 
eyes  sparkled  softly,  her  head  hent  and  rose 
softly.  He  felt  that  she  was  praying  for  liiin 
also, — and  a  wonderful  emotion  filled  his  soul. 
He  felt  happy,  and  somewhat  conseienee-strieken. 
The  decorously-standing  congregation,  the  fa- 
miliar faces,  the  melodious  chanting,  the  odour  of 
the  incense,  the  long,  shuiting  rays  of  light  from 
the  windows,  the  very  gloom  of  the  walls  and 
vaulted  roof, — all  spoke  to  his  ear.  He  had  not 
been  in  a  church  for  a  long  time,  he  had  not  ap- 
pealed to  God  for  a  long  time:  and  even  now, 
he  did  not  utter  any  words  of  prayer, — he  did 
not  even  pray  without  words,  but  for  a  moment, 
at  least,  if  not  in  body,  certainly  with  all  his  mind, 
he  prostrated  himself  and  bowed  humbly  to  the 
very  earth.  He  recalled  how,  in  his  childhood, 
he  had  prayed  in  church  on  every  occasion  until 
he  became  conscious  of  some  one's  cool  touch  on 
his  brow;  "  this,"  he  had  been  accustomed  to  say 
to  himself  at  that  time,  "  is  my  guardian-angel 
accepting  me,  laying  upon  me  the  seal  of  the 
chosen."  He  cast  a  glance  at  Liza.  ..."  Thou 
hast  brought  me  hither,"  he  thought: — "  do  thou 
also  touch  me,  touch  my  soul."  She  continued 
to  pray  in  the  same  calm  manner  as  before;  her 
face  seemed  to  him  joyful,  and  he  was  profoundly 
moved  once  more ;  he  entreated  for  that  other  soul 

— peace,  for  his  own — pardon 

They  met  in  the  porch;  she  greeted  liiin  with 

189 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

cheerful  and  amiable  diiinitv.  Tlie  sun  brilliantly 
illuminated  the  young  grass  in  the  churchyard, 
and  the  motley-hued  gowns  and  kerchiefs  of  the 
women;  the  bells  of  the  neighbouring  churches 
were  booming  aloft ;  the  sparrows  were  chirping 
in  the  hedoerows.  Lavretzkv  stood  Avith  head  un- 
covered,  and  smiled;  a  light  breeze  lifted  his  hair, 
and  the  tips  of  the  ribbons  on  Liza's  hat.  He  put 
Liza  into  her  carriage,  distributed  all  his  small 
cliange  to  the  poor,  and  softly  wended  his  way 
homeward. 


190.. 


XKXII 

Difficult  days  arri(\e(I  for  F'^^^'"'  Ivaiiitcli. 
He  found  liiinself  i/?i  a  coiistj^it  fever.  Every 
niornincj-  he  went  t^)  the  pos'-offiee,  with  exeite- 
ment  l)roke  tlie  seal^  of  iiis  Icttci-s  and  newspapers, 
— and  nowliere  did  he  find  anything  which  niiglit 
have  confirmed  or  refuted  the  fateful  rumour. 
Sometimes  he  became  repulsive  even  to  himself: 
"  Why  am  I  thus  waiting," — he  said  to  himself, 
"  like  a  crow  for  blood,  for  the  sure  news  of  mv 
wife's  death?"  He  went  to  the  Kalitins'  every 
day;  but  even  there  he  was  no  more  at  his  ease: 
the  mistress  of  the  house  opeidy  sulked  at  him, 
received  him  with  condescension;  Panshin  treated 
him  with  exaggerated  courtesy;  Lemm  had  be- 
come misanthropic,  and  hardly  even  bowed  to 
him, — and,  chief  of  all,  I^iza  seemed  •  to  avoid 
him.  But  when  she  chanced  to  be  left  alone  with 
him,  in  place  of  her  previous  trustfulness,  confu- 
sion manifested  itself  in  hei-:  slu'  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  him,  and  he  liini'^elf  felt  agitation. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Liza  had  become 
quite  different  from  herself  as  lie  had  ])reviously 
known  her:  in  her  movements,  her  voice,  in  her 
very  laugh,  a  secret  trepidation  was  pcrcei)tiblc, 

191 


A  XOBT.K^MAXVS  XEST 

'^'-mevenness  wliich  hJi^^l  not  heretofore  existed. 
^^'^•'.i  Dinitrievna,  lik\^  the  genuine  egoist  she 
was,  ^^,)ecte(l  nothing; Vhi;  ]Marfa  Timofeevna 
hegan  tt.^^..^^^^^]^  her  I'avoA  n-ite.  I^avretzky  more 
than  once  isproached  hinii^^lf  with  having  shown 
to  Liza  the  c^^y  of  the  ne''Avspaper  which  he  had 
received :  he  cot\(\  not  fail  vo  recognise  the  fact, 
tliat  in  his  spiritual  conditicftn  there  was  an  ele- 
ment which  was  peh^irbing  tcp  pure  feeling.  He 
also  assumed  tliat  the  changi*  in  IJza  had  been 
brought  about  by  her  conflict:  with  herself,  by 
her  doubts:  what  answer  should  she  give  to  Pan- 
shin?  One  day  she  brought  him  a  book,  one  of 
Walter  Scott's  novels,  which  she  herself  had 
asked  of  him. 

"  Have  you  read  this  book?"— he  ask^d. 

"  No;  I  do  not  feel  in  a  mood  for  ])ooks  now," 
— she  replied,  and  turned  to  go, 

"  \Vait  a  minute:  I  have  not  been  alone  with 
you  for  a  long  time.     You  seem  to  be  afraid  of 


me." 


"  Yes.'-' 

"  ^Vhy  so,  pray?  " 

"I  do  not  know." 

Lavretzky  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

"Tell  me," — he  began: — "you  have  not  yet 
made  up  your  mind?  " 

"What   do   you    mean    by   that?"— she   said, 
without  raising  lier  eyes. 

"  You  understand  me.   ..." 

192 


A  NORl 


.kmA's  XKST 


Liza  siuldciily  Ihislied  nj). 

"  Ask  iiR'  IK)  (|U(stior>''  alxnil  ;iii\  lliid;^,"     sIh 
ejaculated,  witli  \i\acity: — "1  know  iiofliiii;^.   1 
do  not  even  know   mystlt' "     i\ii(l  she  im- 
mediately heal  a  retreat. 

On  the  followiti^day,  J^a\  rel/ky  ariixcd  at  the 
Kalitins'  af'tei-  diiHitr,  and  i'onnd  all  ])it  para- 
tions  made  to  have  the  All-Xi^ht  \'i^il  serviee 
held  there.^  In  one  corner  of  the  (liiiin<4-n)()iii, 
on  a  square  table,  covered  with  a  clean  cloth,  small 
holy  pictures  in  gold  settings,  with  tiny,  dnll 
brilliants  in  tlieir  halos,  were  already  |)laced, 
leanino'  a<>ainst  the  wall.  An  old  man-servant, 
in  a  oTev  frock-coat  and  sli|)i)ers,  walked  the 
whole  length  of  the  room  in  a  deliberate  manner, 
and  without  making  any  noise  with  his  heels,  and 
placed  two  wax  tapers  in  slender  candlesticks  in 
front  of  the  holy  images,  crossed  himself,  made 
a  reverence,  and  softly  withdrew.  The  unlinhted 
drawini^r-room  was  deserted.  Lavretzk\-  walked 
down  the  dining-room,  and  intjuired  -was  it  not 
some  one's  Name-day?  Tie  was  answered,  in  a 
whisper,  that  it  was  not,  but  that  the  Mgil  ser- 
vice had  been  ordered  at  the  desire  of  Li/aveta 
Mikhailovna  and  jNIarfa  Timofeevna:  that  the  in- 
tention had  been  to  bring  thither  the  wonder- 
w^lrking  ikona,  but  it  had  gone  to  a  sick  person. 

r  This  service,  c-onsistiiij;:  (genern.ry)  of  V-Jspers  aiul  Matins,  can  Ix- 
r4d  in  private  houses,  and  even  by  laymen:  whereas,  the  I.iturKy,  or 
rJ^'ss,  must  be  celebrated  at  a  duly  consecrated  altar,  by  a  duly  <>r- 
/ined  priest.— Tkanslatoh. 

193 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  NEST 

thirty  versts  distjint.  There  soon  arrived,  also,  in 
eonipany  with  tlie  elianters,  the  priest,  a  man 
no  longer  young,  with  a  small  hald  spot,  who 
eoughed  loudly  in  the  anteroom;  the  ladies  all 
immediately  trooped  in  single  file  from  the  bou- 
doir, and  a})pr()aehed  to  receive  his  blessing; 
Lavretzkv  saluted  him  in  silence;  and  he  returned 
the  salute  in  silence.  The  priest  stood  still  for 
a  short  time,  then  cleared  his  throat  again,  and 
asked  in  a  low  tone,  with  a  bass  voice: 
"  Do  you  command  me  to  proceed?  " 
"  Proceed,  batiushka," — replied  JNIarya  Dmi- 
trievna. 

He  began  to  vest  himself;  the  chanter  obsequi- 
ously asked  for  a  live  coal;  the  incense  began  to 
diffuse  its  fragrance.  The  maids  and  lackeys 
emerged  from  the  anteroom  and  halted  in  a 
dense  throng  close  to  the  door.  Roska,  who 
never  came  down-stairs,  suddenly  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  dining-room :  they  began  to 
drive  him  out,  and  he  became  confused,  turned 
around  and  sat  down;  a  footman  picked  him 
up  and  carried  him  away.  The  A^igil  service 
began.  Lavretzkv  pressed  himself  into  a  corner; 
his  sensations  were  strange,  almost  melancholy; 
he  himself  was  not  able  clearly  to  make  out  what 
he  felt.  iNIarya  Dmitrievna  stood  in  front  of 
them  all,  before  an  arm-chair ;  she  crossed  herse^lf 
with  enervated  carelessness,  in  regular  lord,  v 
fashion, — now  glancing  around  her,  again  sue  • 
denly  casting  her  eyes  u})ward:  she  was  bore( 

VJ4< 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   N  KST 

Marfa  'riinofeevna  seemed  troiihlcd:  Nastasva 
Karpoviia  kept  pr().straliii«>'  herself,  and  lisiiin 
with  a  sort  of  modest,  soi'l  rustle;  Li/.a  look  up 
her  stand,  and  never  stirred  from  her  |)laee,  never 
moved;  from  the  eoneentrated  exjjression  of  her 
countenance,  it  was  ])ossihle  to  divine  thai  she 
was  praying  assiduously  and  fervetitiy.  When 
she  kissed  the  cross,  at  the  end  of  the  sei\  ice.  she 
also  kissed  the  priest's  large,  red  hand.  Maiya 
Dmitrievna  invited  him  to  drink  tea:  lie  took  of!" 
his  stole,  assumed  a  rather  secular  air,  and  |)ass((l 
into  the  drawing-room  with  the  ladies.  A  not 
over  animated  conversation  began.  The  piiest 
drank  four  cups  of  tea,  incessantly  moj)j)ing  his 
bald  spot  with  his  handkerchief,  and  narrated, 
among  other  things,  that  merchant  Avo.shnikoff 
had  contributed  seven  hundred  rubles  to  gild  the 
"cupola"  of  the  church,  and  he  also  imj)arted 
a  sure  cure  for  freckles.  Tjavretzky  tried  to  seat 
himself  beside  I^iza,  but  she  maintained  a  seMre. 
almost  harsli  demeanour,  and  never  once  glanced 
at  him;  she  appeared  to  be  deliberately  refrain- 
ing from  noticing  him;  a  certain  cold,  dignified 
rapture  had  descended  upon  lui-.  I'oi-  some  rea- 
son or  other,  Lavretzky  felt  inclined  to  smile  nn- 
irterruptedly,  and  say  something  amusing:  but 
there  was  confusion  in  bis  heart,  and  he  went 
away  at  last,  secretly  ])erple\ed.  .  .  .  lie  felt 
that  there  was  something  in  Liza  into  which  he 
could  not  penetrate. 

On  another  occasion.  Lavretzky,  as  he  .sat   \\\ 

195 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

the  drawing-room,  and  listened  to  the  insinuating 
but  lieavv  cliatter  of  Gedeonovsky,  suddenly 
turned  round,  without  himself  knowing  why  he 
did  so,  and  caught  a  deep,  attentive,  questioning 

ffaze   in   Liza's   eves It   was   riveted   on 

him,  tliat  puzzling  gaze,  afterward.  I^avretzky 
thought  about  it  all  niglit  long.  Pie  had  not 
fallen  in  love  in  boyish  fashion,  it  did  not  suit  him 
to  sigh  and  languish,  neither  did  Liza  arouse  that 
sort  of  sentiment;  but  love  has  its  sufferings  at 
every  age, — and  he  underwent  them  to  the  full. 


196 


XXXI  u 

One  day,  acconliii<4'  to  his  ciistoni,  Lavrctzky  was 
sitting  at  the  Kah'tiiis'.  A  f'ationinoly-lioi  day 
had  been  followed  by  so  line  an  evening,  that 
jMarya  Dmitrievna,  despite  her  aversion  to  the 
fresh  air,  had  ordered  all  the  windows  and  doors 
into  the  garden  to  be  opened,  and  had  annonneed 
that  she  would  not  play  eards,  that  it  was  a  sin 
to  play  cards  in  such  weather,  and  one  must  en- 
joy nature.  Panshin  was  the  only  visitor.  Tuned 
up  by  the  evening,  and  unwilling  to  sing  l)efore 
Lavretzkv,  vet  conscious  of  an  influx  of  artistic 
emotions,  he  turned  to  poetry:  he  recited  well, 
but  with  too  much  self-consciousness,  and  with 
unnecessary  subtleties,  several  of  Lermontofi's 
poems  (at  that  time,  Pushkin  had  not  yet  become 
fashionable  again) — and,  all  at  once,  as  though 
ashamed  of  his  ex])ansiveness,  he  began,  apropos 
of  the  familiar  "  Thought,"  to  upl)raid  and 
reprove  the  present  generation:  in  that  connec- 
tion, not  missing  the  opportunity  to  set  forth, 
how  he  would  turn  everything  around  in  liis  own 
way,  if  the  power  were  in  his  hands.  "  Uussia," 
said  he, — "has  lagged  behind  Europe;  she  must 
catch  up  with  it.  People  assert,  that  we  are  young 

197 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

C  — that  is  nonsense;  and  moreover,  that  we  pos- 
^   sess  no  inventive  genius:  X  .  .  .   himself  admits 
V    that  A\e  have  not  even  invented  a  mouse-trap. 
Consequently,  we  are  compelled,  willy-nilly,  to 
borrow  from  others.     '  We  are  ill,' — says  Ler- 
montoff, — I  agree  with  him;  but  we  are  ill  be- 
V      cause  we  have  onlv  half  converted  ourselves  into 
<^   Europeans;  that  is  where  we  have  made  our  mis- 
take, and  that  is  what  we  must  be  cured  of."  (''l^c 
cadastre'' — thought     Lavretzky). — "The     best 
heads  among  us," — he  went  on, — ''  Ics  meilleurs 
^     tetes — have  long  since  become  convinced  of  this; 
'     all  nations  are,  essentially,  alike;  only  introduce 
'^^  good  institutions,  and  there  's  an  end  of  the  mat- 
ter.    One  ma}^  even  conform  to  the  existing  na- 
tional life;  that  is  our  business,  the  business  of 
men  .  .  .  ."    (he  came  near  saying:  "of  states- 
men ")   "  who  are  in  the  service;  but,  in  ease  of 
need,  be  not  uneasy:  the  institutions  will  trans- 
form that  same  existence."     JNIarya  Dmitrievna, 
with   emotion,   backed   up   Panshin.      "  What   a 
clever  man  this  is," — she  thought, — "  talking  in 
my  house!"    Liza  said   nothing,   as   she  leaned 
against  a  window-frame;  Lavretzky  also  main- 
tained silence ;  JNIarf a  Timof eevna,  who  was  play- 
ing cards  in  the  corner  with  her  friend,  nnittered 
something  to  herself.     Panshin  strode  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  talked  elo(juently,  but  with  a 
secret  spite:  he  seemed  to  be  scolding  not  the 
whole   race,   ])ut   certain   individuals   of   his   ac- 

198 


A  NOBLEMAN  S  XKST 

quaintancc.  In  the  Kalitiiis"  oank'ii.  in  .1  l;ii..( 
lilac-busli,  dwelt  a  iii<»litin<4ale,  wliose  fiist  e\in- 
ing  notes  rang  forth  in  the  intervals  ol'  this  elo- 
quent harangue;  the  first  stars  lighted  up  in  the 
rosy  sky,  above  the  motionless  crests  of  the  lin- 
dens. Lavret/ky  rose,  and  began  to  reply  to 
l^arishin;  an  argument  ensued.  Lavret/ky  de- 
fended the  youth  and  independence  of  l{ussia: 
he  siuTendered  himself,  his  generation  as  sacrifice, 
— but  upheld  the  new  men,  their  convictions,  antl 
their  desires;  Panshin  retorted  in  a  sharp  and  irri- 
tating way,  declared  that  clever  men  must  reform 
everything,  and  went  so  far,  at  last,  that,  I'orget- 
ting  his  rank  of  Junior  Gentleman  of  the  Im- 
perial Bedchamber,  and  his  official  career,  he 
called  Lavretzky  a  "  laggard  conservative,"  lie 
even  hinted, — in  a  very  remote  way,  it  is  true, — 
at  his  false  position  in  society.  Lavretzky  did 
not  get  angry,  did  not  raise  his  voice  (he  remem- 
bered that  ]Miklialevitch  also  had  called  him  a 
laggard — only,  a  Voltairian) — and  ealml\  \  ;m- 
quished  Panshin  on  every  ])oint.  He  demon- 
strated to  him  the  impossibility  of  leaps  and 
supercilious  reforms,  unjustified  either  l)y  a 
knowledge  of  the  native  land  or  actual  faith  in  an 
ideal,  even  a  negative  ideal;  he  cited,  as  an  exam- 
ple, his  own  education,  and  demanded,  first  of  all, 
a  recognition  of  national  truth  and  submission  to 
it, — that  submission  without  which  even  bohhiess 
against  falsehood  is  imi)ossible:  he  did  not  evade, 

199 


^ 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

in  conclusion,  the  reproach — merited,  in  his  opin- 
ion— of  frivolons  waste  of  time  and  strength. 

"All  that  is  very  fine!" — exclaimed  the  en- 
raged Panshin,  at  last: — "Here,  you  have  re- 
turned to  Russia, — what  do  you  intend  to  do?  " 

"Till  the  soil," — replied  Lavretzky: — "and 
try  to  till  it  as  well  as  possible." 

"  That  is  very  praiseworthy,  there  's  no  dis- 
puting that," — rejoined  Panshin: — "  and  I  have 
been  told,  that  you  have  already  had  great  suc- 
cess in  that  direction;  but  you  must  admit,  that 
not  every  one  is  fitted  for  that  sort  of  occu- 
pation.  .  .  " 

"  Une  nature  poetique" — began  Marya  Dmi- 
trievna, — "  of  course,  cannot  till  the  soil  .  .  .  .  et 
puis,  you  are  called,  Vladimir  Nikolaitch,  to  do 
everything  en  grand" 

This  w^as  too  much  even  for  Panshin:  he 
stopped  short,  and  the  conversation  stopped  short 
also.  He  tried  to  turn  it  on  the  beauty  of  the 
starry  sky,  on  Schubert's  music — but,  for  some 
reason,  it  would  not  run  smoothly;  he  ended,  by 
suggesting  to  Marya  Dmitrievna,  that  he  should 
play  picquet  with  her. — "What!  on  such  an 
evening?" — she  replied  feebly;  but  she  ordered 
the  cards  to  be  brought. 

Panshin,  with  a  crackling  noise,  tore  open  the 
fresh  pack,  while  Liza  and  Lavretzky,  as  though 
in  pursuance  of  an  agreement,  both  rose,  and 
placed    themselves    beside    INIarfa    Timofeevna. 

200 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Thev  both,  siKldciilv,  i'cll  :;  >  xvv\  imicli  ;il  case 
that  they  were  even  afraid  to  he  left  alone  to- 
gether,— and,  at  the  same  time,  holii  IVlt  that  tlu- 
embarrassment  whicli  tliev  liad  ex})erieneed  dur- 
ing the  last  few  days  had  vanished,  ne\er  more 
to  retnrn.  The  old  woman  stealthily  j)atte(l  La- 
vretzky  on  the  eheek,  slyly  screwed  u\)  her  eyes, 
and  shook  her  head  several  times,  remarking  in 
a  whispei':  "  Thon  hast  got  the  best  of  the  clever 
fellow,  thanks."  Everything  in  the  room  became 
still;  the  only  sound  was  the  faint  crackling  of 
the  wax  candles,  and,  now  and  then,  the  taj)ping 
of  hands  on  the  table,  and  an  exclamation,  or  the 
reckoning  of  the  spots, — and  the  song,  mighty, 
resonant  to  the  verge  of  daring,  of  the  night- 
ingale, poured  in  a  broad  stream  through  the 
w indow,  in  company  with  the  dewy  coolness. 


201 


XXXIV 

Liza  had  not  uttered  a  single  word  during  the 
course  of  the  dispute  between  Lavretzky  and 
Piinshin,  but  had  attentively  followed  it,  and  had 
been  entirely  on  Lavretzky's  side.  Politics  pos- 
sessed very  little  interest  for  her;  but  the  self- 
confident  tone  of  the  fashionable  official  (he  had 
never,  hitherto,  so  completely  expressed  himself) 
had  repelled  her ;  his  scorn  of  Russia  had  woimded 
her.  It  had  never  entered  Liza's  head,  that  she 
was  a  patriot;  but  she  was  at  her  ease  with  Rus- 
/  sian  people;  tlie  Russian  turn  of  mind  gladdened 
,  her;  without  anj^  affectation,  for  hoiu-s  at  a  time, 
(^  she  chatted  with  the  overseer  of  her  mother's  es- 
'  tate,  when  he  came  to  town,  and  talked  with  him 
as  with  an  equal,  without  any  lordly  condescen- 
sion. Lavretzky  felt  all  this:  he  would  not  have 
undertaken  to  reply  to  Panshin  alone;  he  had 
been  talking  for  Liza  only.  They  said  nothing 
to  each  other,  even  their  eves  met  but  rarelv;  but 
botli  understood  that  they  had  come  very  close 
together  tliat  e^'ening,  understood  that  they 
loved  and  did  not  love  the  same  things.  On  only 
one  point  did  they  differ;  but  Liza  secretly  hoped 
to  bring  him  to  God.  Thej'^  sat  beside  JNIarfa 
~  202 


A  NOBLE.AIAX'S  NEST 

Timofeeviia,  and  apjR'ared  to  he  watching-  hw 
play;  and  they  really  were  watehino-  it,  hut.  ;,, 
the  meanwhile,  their  hearts  hud  waxed  ^reat  in 
their  hosonis,  and  notliino-  esea|)e(l  tlieni:  for  them 
the  nightingale  was  singing,  the  stars  were  sinn- 
ing, and  the  trees  were  sol'tly  whispering,  lulled 
hoth  hv  slumher  and  hy  the  softness  ol"  the  sum- 
mer,  and  hy  the  warmth.  Layretzky  surrendered 
himself  wholly  to  the  hillow  whieh  was  hearing 
him  onward, — and  rejoiced;  hut  no  word  can  ex- 
press that  which  took  place  in  the  young  girl's 
pure  soul:  it  was  a  secret  to  herself;  so  let  it 
remain  for  all  others.  Xo  one  laiows.  no  one  has 
seen,  and  no  one  ever  will  see,  how  that  whieh  is 
called  into  life  and  blossom  pours  forth  and  ma- 
tures grain  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

The  clock  struck  ten.  Marfa  Timofcevna  went 
off  to  her  rooms  up-stairs,  with  Xastasya  Kar- 
povna;  Lavret/ky  and  Liza  strolled  through  the 
room,  halted  in  front  of  the  open  door  to  the 
garden,  gazed  into  the  dark  distance,  then  at  each 
other — and  smiled;  they  would  have  liked,  it  aj)- 
peared,  to  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  talk 
their  fill.  They  returned  to  jNIarya  Dnn'trievna 
and  Panshin,  whose  picfjuet  had  become  pro- 
tracted. The  last  "  king  "  came  to  an  end  at 
length,  and  the  hostess  rose,  groaning  and  sigh- 
ing, from  the  cushion.-gainished  arm-chair;  I'jin- 
shin  took  his  hat,  kissed  Marya  Dinih'icvna's 
hand,  remarked  that  nothing  now  prevented  other 

203 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

liappy  mortals  from  going  to  bed,  or  enjoying 
the  night,  bnt  that  he  must  sit  over  stupid  papers 
until  the  morning  dawned,  bowed  eoldly  to  Liza 
(he  had  not  expected  that  in  reply  to  his  offer 
of  marriage,  she  would  ask  him  to  wait, — and 
therefore  he  was  sulking  at  her) — and  went 
away.  Lavretzky  followed  him.  At  the  gate 
they  parted;  Panshin  aroused  his  coachman  by 
poking  him  with  the  tip  of  his  cane  in  the  neck, 
seated  himself  in  his  drozhky,  and  drove  off.  La- 
vretzky did  not  feel  like  going  home;  he  walked 
out  beyond  the  town,  into  the  fields.  The  night 
was  tranquil  and  bright,  although  there  was  no 
moon ;  Lavretzky  roamed  about  on  the  dewy  grass 
for  a  long  time;  he  came  by  accident  upon  a 
narrow  path;  he  walked  along  it.  It  led  him  to 
a  long  fence,  to  a  wicket-gate;  he  tried,  without 
himself  knowing  why,  to  push  it  open :  it  creaked 
softly,  and  opened,  as  though  it  had  been  await- 
ing the  pressure  of  hir:  hand;  Lavretzky  found 
himself  in  a  garden,  advanced  a  few  paces  along 
an  avenue  of  lindens,  and  suddenly  stopped  short 
in  amazement:  he  recognised  the  garden  of  the 
Kalitins. 

He  immediately  stepped  into  a  black  blot  of 
shadow  which  was  cast  by  a  thick  hazel-bush,  and 
stood  for  a  long  time  motionless,  wondering  and 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  This  has  not  happened  for  nothing,"  he 
thought. 

204 


A  NORT.E:\rAX'S   XKST 

Everything^  was  sikul  round  al)()ul  :  tml  a  soninl 
was  borne  to  him  from  the  (hi-cctlon  of  the  house. 
He  cautiously  advanced  Lo,  al  Mir  turn  in  the 
avenue,  the  whole  liouse  suddeidy  «4a/.i(l  al  liim 
with  its  dark  front;  oidy  in  two  of  tlu-  n|)|)(  r  win- 
dows M-ere  lights  twinkling:  in  Ij/as  room,  a 
candle  was  burning  ))ehind  a  wiiile  sliadc,  and  in 
JNfarfa  Timofeevna's  bedroom  a  shrine-lamp  was 
glowing  with  a  red  gleam  in  front  of  llie  liolv 
pictures,  reflecting  itself  in  an  even  halo  iii  the 
golden  settings;  down-stairs,  the  dooi-  lead- 
ing out  on  the  balcony  yawned  broadly,  as  it  stood 
wide  open.  I^avretzky  seated  himself  on  a 
wooden  bench,  propped  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
began  to  gaze  at  the  door  and  the  window.  Mid- 
night struck  in  the  town;  in  the  house,  the  small 
clocks  shrilly  rang  out  twelve;  the  watchman  beat 
with  a  riffle  of  taps  on  the  board.  Lavretzky 
thought  of  nothing,  expected  nothing:  it  was 
pleasant  to  him  to  feel  himself  near  Liza,  to  sit  in 
her  garden  on  the  bench,  where  she  also  Iiad  sat 

more  than  once The  light  disai)peare(l  in 

Liza's  room. 

"Good  night,  my  dear  girl."  whisi)ered  La- 
vretzky, as  he  continued  to  sit  motionless,  and 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  darkened 
window. 

Suddenly  a  light  appeared  in  one  of  the  win- 
dows of  the  lower  storey.  ])assed  to  a  second,  a 
tlnrd.  .  .  .  Some  one  was  walking  through  the 

205 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

rooms  with  a  candle.  "  Can  it  be  Liza?  Im- 
possible! "  .  .  .  .  Lavretzky  half  rose  to  his  feet. 
A  familiar  figure  flitted  past,  and  Liza  made  her 
appearance  in  the  drawing-room.  In  a  white 
gown,  with  her  hair  hanging  loosely  on  her 
shoulders,  she  softly  approached  a  table,  bent  over 
it,  set  down  the  candle,  and  searched  for  some- 
thing; then,  turning  her  face  toward  the  garden, 
she  approached  the  open  door,  and,  all  white, 
light,  graceful,  paused  on  the  threshold.  A 
quiver  ran  through  Lavretzky's  limbs. 

"  Liza!  " — burst  from  his  lips,  in  barely  audi- 
ble tones. 

She  started,  and  began  to  stare  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Liza!" — repeated  Lavretzky  more  loudly, 
and  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  avenue. 

Liza,  in  alarm,  stretched  forth  her  head,  and 
staggered  backward.  He  called  her  for  the  third 
time,  and  held  out  his  arms  toward  her.  She  left 
the  door,  and  advanced  into  the  garden. 

"  Is  it  you?" — she  said. — "  Are  you  here?  " 

"  It  is  I I  .  .  .  listen  to  me," — whispered 

Lavretzky,  and,  grasping  her  hand,  he  led  her  to 
the  bench. 

She  followed  him  without  resistance;  her  pale 
face,  her  impassive  eyes,  all  her  movements,  were 
expressive  of  unutterable  amazement.  I^avret- 
zky  seated  lier  on  the  bench,  and  himself  took  up 
his  stand  in  front  of  her. 

206 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  coniiii"^  IiitlitT,"     Ik   l.c- 

gan: — "  I  came  hither  hy  cliaiice I   .  .  .  . 

I  ...  I  love  you," — he  said,  with  irivoluiitaiv 
terror. 

Liza  slowly  glanced  at  him;  aj)|)arently,  s\\v 
had  ordy  that  moment  compreliended  where  she 
was,  and  that  she  was  with  him.  She  tried  to 
rise,  hut  could  not,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Liza," — said  Lavretzky: — "  Liza," — lie  re- 
peated, and  bowed  down  at  her  feet.  .  .  . 

Her  shoulders  began  to  quiver  sh"ghtly,  the 
fingers  of  her  pale  hands  were  pressed  more 
tightly  to  her  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  " — Lavretzky 
uttered,  and  caught  the  sound  of  soft  sobl)iiig. 
His  heart  turned  cold.  .  .  .  He  understood  the 
meaning  of  those  tears.  "  Can  it  be  that  you 
love  me?  " — he  whispered,  and  touched  her  knee. 

"  Rise,"  he  heard  her  voice: — "  rise,  Feodor 
Ivanitch.  What  is  this  that  you  and  I  are 
doing?  " 

He  rose,  and  seated  himself  bv  her  side  on  the 
bench.  She  was  no  longer  weeping,  but  was 
gazing  attentively  at  him  with  her  wet  eyes. 

"  I  am  frightened:  what  are  we  doing?  " — she 
repeated. 

"  I  love  you," — he  said  agnin: — "  1  am  ready 
to  give  the  whole  of  my  life  to  you.  " 

Again    she    shuddered,    as    though    something 

207 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

liad  si'iing  lier,  and  raised  her  gaze  heaven- 
ward. 

"  All  this  is  in  God's  power," — she  said. 

"  But  do  you  love  me,  Liza?  Shall  we  be 
happy?" 

Slie  dropped  lier  eyes;  he  softly  drew  her  to 
him,  and  lier  head  sank  upon  his  slioulder.  .  .  . 
He  turned  lier  head  a  little  to  one  side,  and 
touched  her  pale  lips. 

Half  an  hour  later,  I^avretzky  was  standing  be- 
fore the  wicket.  He  found  it  locked,  and  was 
obliged  to  leap  across  the  fence.  He  returned 
to  the  town,  and  walked  through  the  sleeping 
streets.  A  sensation  of  great,  of  unexpected 
happiness  filled  his  soul;  all  doubts  had  died 
within  him.  "  Vanish,  past,  dark  spectre,"  he 
thought:  "  she  loves  me,  she  will  be  mine."  All 
at  once,  it  seemed  to  him  that  in  the  air,  over  his 
head,  wondrous,  triumphant  sounds  rang  out; 
the  sounds  rolled  on  still  more  magnificently;  in 
a  chanting,  miglity  flood  they  streamed  on, — and 
in  them,  so  it  seemed,  all  his  happiness  was  sjieak- 
ing  and  singing.  He  glanced  around  him:  the 
sounds  were  floating  from  two  upper  windows 
of  a  tiny  house. 

"Lemm!" — cried  Lavretzkv,  and  ran  to  the 
liouse. — "  Lemm!  I^emm!  " — he  repeated  loudly. 

The  sounds  died  away,  and  the  figure  of  the 
old  man  in  his  dressing-gown,  with  breast  bare, 

208 


A  NOrJT.EIMAX'S   XKST 

and  hair  dishevelled,  niade  its  appearance  ;il   ihc 
window. 

"Aha!" — he    said,    with    di«>nitv: — "is    that 
you?" 

"  Christofor  Feodoritcli!  wliat  s])]eiidid  music! 
For  God's  sake,  let  nie  in." 

The  old  man,  Avithout  ntterin^-  a  word,  with 
a  majestic  movement  of  the  arm  fluno-  the  door- 
key  out  of  the  window  into  the  street.  I  .avretzk v 
briskly  ran  up-stairs,  entered  the  I'oom,  and  was 
on  the  ])oint  of  rushing  at  T.enim.  hnl  the  latter 
imperiously  motioned  him  to  a  chair;  he  said, 
abruptly,  in  Russian:  "Sit  down  and  listen!" 
seated  himself  at  the  piano,  oa/ed  proudly  and 
sternly  about  him,  and  began  to  i)lay.  It  was 
long  since  Lavretzky  had  heard  anything  of  the 
sort:  a  sweet,  passionate  melody,  which  gripj)ed 
the  heart  from  its  very  first  notes;  it  was  all  beam- 
ing  and  languishing  with  inspiration,  with  luip- 
piness,  with  beauty;  it  swelled  and  melted  away: 
it  touched  everything  which  exists  on  earth  of 
precious,  mysterious,  holy;  it  breathed  foitli 
deathless  sadness,  and  floated  away  to  die-  in 
heaven.  Lavretzky  straightened  liimseli"  u])  and 
stood  there,  cold  and  pale  with  i*apture.  Those 
sounds  fairly  sank  into  his  soul,  which  had  only 
just  been  shaken  with  the  bliss  of  love;  they  lluin- 
selves  were  flaming  with  love.  "  Repeat  it."  - 
he  whispered,  as  soon  as  the  last  chord  resoujidcd. 
The   old   man   cast   u])on    him    an    lagle   glance, 

•200 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

struck  his  breast  with  his  hand,  and  saying  delib- 
erately, in  his  native  language: — -"  I  made  that, 
for  I  am  a  great  musician," — he  again  played  his 
wonderful  composition.  There  was  no  candle 
in  the  room;  the  light  of  the  rising  moon  fell 
aslant  through  the  window;  the  sensitive  air 
trembled  resonantly ;  the  pale,  little  room  seemed 
a  sanctuary,  and  the  head  of  the  old  man  rose 
high  and  inspired  in  the  silvery  semi-darkness. 
I^avretzky  approached  and  embraced  him.  At 
first,  Lemm  did  not  respond  to  his  embrace,  he 
even  repulsed  it  with  liis  elbow;  for  a  long  time, 
without  moving  a  single  limb,  he  continued  to 
gaze  forth,  as  before,  sternly,  almost  roughly, 
and  only  bellowed  a  couple  of  times:  "Aha!" 
At  last  his  transfigured  face  grew  calm,  relaxed, 
and,  in  reply  to  Lavretzky's  warm  congratula- 
tions, he  first  smiled  a  little,  then  fell  to  weeping, 
feebly  sobbing  like  a  cliild. 

"This  is  marvellous," — he  said: — "that  pre- 
cisely you  should  now  liave  come;  but  1  know — I 
know^  all." 

"You  know  all?" — ejaculated  Lavretzky,  in 
confusion. 

"You  have  heard  me," — returned  Lemm: — 
"  have  not  j'ou  understood  that  I  know  all?  " 

Lavretzky  could  not  get  to  sleep  until  the 
morning:  all  niglit  long,  he  sat  on  his  bed.  And 
Liza  did  not  sleep:  slie  prayed. 


210 


XXXV 

The  reader  knows  how  Lavretzky  had  ^rowii  uj) 
and  devek)ped;  let  us  say  a  few  words  al)()ut 
Liza's  hringing  up.  She  was  ten  years  okl  wIrii 
her  father  (Hed;  hut  he  had  paid  httle  heed  to 
her.  Overwhehned  with  husiness,  eonstaiitly  al)- 
sorbed  in  increasing  his  })ropcrty,  splenetic, 
harsli,  impatient,  he  furnished  money  unsparingly 
for  teachers,  tutors,  clothing,  and  the  other  wants 
of  the  cliildren;  but  he  could  not  endure,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "  to  dandle  the  scpialling  ])rats," — 
and  he  had  no  time  to  dandle  them:  he  worked, 
toiled  over  his  business,  slept  little,  occasionally 
played  cards,  worked  again;  he  compared  himself 
to  a  horse  liarnessed  to  a  tlu'eshing-machine. 
"  My  life  has  rushed  by  fast,"  lie  said  on  liis  death- 
bed, with  a  proud  smile  on  his  parched  lii)s. 
Marya  Dmitrievna,  in  reality,  troubled  herself 
about  Liza  hardly  more  than  did  the  fathei-,  al- 
though she  had  boasted  to -Lavretzky  that  she 
alone  had  reared  her  children;  she  had  dressed 
Liza  like  a  doll,  in  the  presence  of  visitors  had 
patted  her  on  the  head,  and  called  her,  to  her  face, 
a  clever  child  and  a  darling — and  that  was  all: 
any  regular  care  wearied  the  lazy  gentlewoniaii. 

211 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

During  lier  father's  lifetime,  Liza  had  been  in  tlie 
hands  of  a  governess,  ^Nllle.  ^Nloreau,  from  Paris, 
and  after  his  death  she  had  passed  into  the  charge 
of  ]Marfa  Timofeevna.  The  reader  is  acquainted 
with  ^larfa  Timofeevna;  but  jNIlle.  JNloreau  was  a 
tinv,  wrinkled  creature,  with  birdlike  ways  and  a 
tiny,  birdlike  mind.  In  her  youth  she  had  led 
a  very  dissipated  life,  and  in  her  riper  years  she 
had  but  two  passions  left — for  dainties  and  for 
cards.  ^Vhen  she  w^as  gorged,  was  not  playing 
cards,  and  not  chattering,  her  face  instanth^  as- 
sumed an  almost  deathlike  expression :  she  would 
sit,  and  gaze,  and  breathe,  and  it  was  evident 
that  no  thought  was  passing  through  her  head. 
It  was  not  even  possible  to  call  her  good- 
natured  :  there  are  also  birds  which  are  not  good- 
natured.  ^Vhether  it  was  in  consequence  of  her 
frivolously-spent  youth,  or  of  the  Paris  air,  which 
she  had  breathed  since  her  childhood, — she  har- 
boured within  her  a  certain  cheap,  general 
scepticism,  which  is  usually  expressed  by  the 
words :  "  tout  fa  c'est  des  hetises."  She  talked 
an  irregular,  but  purely  Parisian  jargon,  did  not 
gossip,  was  not  capncious, — and  what  more  could 
be  desired  in  a  governess?  On  Liza  she  had  little 
influence;  all  the  more  powerful  upon  her  was 
the  influence  of  her  nurse,  Agafya  Vlasievna. 

The  lot  of  this  woman  was  remarkable.  She 
sprang  from  a  peasant  family ;  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, they  married  her  to  a  peasant;  but  there 

212 


A  NOBLKMAX'S  XEST 

was  a  sharp  (listinction  bctwctii  lie  r  .ind  her  sister- 
peasant  women.  For  twenty  years  Ik  r  r.itlicr 
had  been  the  village  elder,  had  accmniilalcd  a 
good  deal  of  money,  and  had  petted  lur.  SIk-  was 
a  wonderful  beauty,  the  most  dashingly-clcgarit 
peasant  maid  in  all  the  country  romid  about, 
clever,  a  good  talker,  daring.  Her  masttr,  Dmi'- 
try  Pestoff,  the  father  of  Marya  Dmitrieviia.  a 
modest,  quiet  man,  caught  sight  oi'  her  one  day 
at  the  threshing,  talked  with  her,  and  fell  passion- 
ately in  love  with  her. 

Soon  afterward,  she  became  a  widow:  I'estoff, 
although  he  was  a  married  man,  took  her  into  his 
house,  and  clothed  her  in  the  style  ol'  a  house- 
servant.  Agafva  immediately  accommodated 
herself  to  her  new  position,  exactly  as  though  she 
had  never  lived  in  any  other  way.  Her  skin  be- 
came white,  she  grew  plum});  her  arms,  under 
their  muslin  sleeves,  became  "  like  fine  wheat 
flour,"  like  those  of  a  cook;  the  samovar  stood 
constantly  on  her  table;  she  would  wear  nothing 
but  velvet  and  silk,  she  slept  on  a  feather-bed  of 
down.  This  blissful  life  lasted  for  the  space  of 
five  years;  but  Dmitry  Pestoff  died:  his  widow, 
a  good-natured  gentlewoman,  desirous  of  sparing 
her  husband's  memory,  was  not  willing  to  be- 
have dishonoiu'ably  towai'd  her  rival,  the  more 
so,  as  Agafya  had  never  forgotten  herself  before 
her;  but  she  married  her  to  the  cow-herd,  and 
sent  her  out  of  her  sight.     Three  yeai-s  jiassed. 

213 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

Once,  on  a  hot  suinnier  dav,  the  lady  of  the  manor 
went  to  her  dairy.  Agafya  treated  her  to  such 
splendid  cold  cream,  bore  herself  so  modestly,  and 
was  so  neat  in  person,  and  so  cheerful  and  satis- 
fied with  everytliing,  that  her  mistress  announced 
to  her  her  pardon,  and  permitted  her  to  come  to 
the  manor-house;  and  six  months  later,  she  had 
become  so  attached  to  her,  that  she  promoted  her 
to  the  post  of  housekeeper,  and  entrusted  the  en- 
tire management  to  her.  Again  Agafj^a  came 
into  power,  again  she  grew  plump  and  white- 
skinned;  her  mistress  had  complete  confidence 
in  her.  In  this  manner,  five  more  years  elapsed. 
Again  misfortune  fell  upon  Agafya.  Her  hus- 
band, whom  she  had  had  raised  to  the  post  of  foot- 
man, took  to  drink,  began  to  disappear  from  the 
house,  and  wound  up  by  stealing  six  of  the  fam- 
ily's silver  spoons,  and  hiding  them— imtil  a  con- 
venient opportunity — in  his  wife's  chest.  This 
was  discovered.  He  was  again  degraded  to  the 
rank  of  cow-herd,  and  a  sentence  of  disgrace  was 
pronounced  upon  Agafya;  she  was  not  banished 
from  tlie  house,  but  she  was  reduced  from  the 
place  of  housekeeper  to  tliat  of  seamstress,  and 
ordered  to  wear  a  kerchief  on  her  head,  instead 
of  a  cap.  To  the  amazement  of  all,  Agafya  ac- 
cepted the  blow  which  had  overtaken  her  with 
humble  submission.  She  was  then  over  thirty 
years  of  age,  all  her  children  had  died,  and  her 
husband  did  not  long  survive.    The  time  had  ar- 

214 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   NKS  T 

rived  for  her  to  eome  to  a  sense  of  Irt  position- 
she  did  so.  She  heeaiiie  very  taeitmii  and  dcNout. 
never  missed  a  single  ^Matins  serviee,  nor  a  single 
Liturgy,  and  gave  away  all  her  fine-  clotlus.  Fif- 
teen years  she  spent  (juietly,  i)eaeelully,  \s  itii  dig- 
nity, quarrelling  with  no  one,  yielding  to  every 
one.  If  any  one  spoke  rudely  to  her, — she  merely 
bowed,  and  returned  thanks  for  the  les.soii.  Her 
mistress  had  forgiven  her  long  sinee,  had  re- 
moved the  ban  from  her,  and  had  given  her  a 
cap  from  her  own  head;  but  she  herself  refused 
to  remove  her  kerchief,  and  always  went  about 
in  a  dark-hued  gown;  and  after  the  death  of  her 
mistress,  she  became  still  more  quiet  and  humble. 
A  Russian  easily  conceives  fear  and  affection; 
but  it  is  difficidt  to  win  his  respect:  it  is  not  soon 
given,  nor  to  every  one.  Every  one  in  the  house 
respected  Agafya;  no  one  even  recalled  her  for- 
mer sins,  as  though  they  had  been  buried  in  the 
earth,  along  with  the  old  master. 

When  Kalftin  became  the  husband  of  Marya 
Dmitrievna,  he  wished  to  entrust  the  housekeep- 
ing to  AgJifya;  but  she  declined,  "  because  oi'  tlir 
temptation";  he  roared  at  her,  she  made  him  a 
lowly  reverence,  and  left  the  room.  The  clever 
Kalftin  understood  people;  and  he  also  under- 
stood Agafya,  and  did  not  forget  hei'.  On  re- 
moving his  residence  to  the  town,  he  api)ointt(l 
her,  with  her  own  consent,  as  nurse  to  Liza.  \\  lio 
had  just  entered  her  fifth  year. 

21o 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

At  first,  Liza  was  frightened  by  the  serious 
and  stern  face  of  her  new  nurse;  but  she  speedily 
became  accustomed  to  lier,  and  conceived  a  strong 
affection  for  her.  She  herself  was  a  serious  child ; 
lier  features  recalled  the  clear-cut,  regular  face 
of  Kalitin;  only,  she  had  not  her  father's  eyes; 
hers  beamed  with  a  tranquil  attention  and  kind- 
ness wliich  are  rare  in  children.  She  did  not  like 
to  play  with  dolls,  her  laughter  was  neither  loud 
nor  long,  she  bore  herself  M'ith  decorum.  She 
was  not  often  thoughtful,  and  was  never  so  with- 
out cause;  after  remaining  silent  for  a  time,  she 
almost  always  ended  by  turning  to  some  one  of 
lier  elders,  with  a  question  which  showed  that  her 
brain  was  working  over  a  new  impression.  She 
very  early  ceased  to  lisp,  and  already  in  her  fourth 
year  she  spoke  with  perfect  distinctness.  She 
was  afraid  of  her  father;  her  feeling  toward  her 
mother  was  undefined, — she  did  not  fear  her, 
neither  did  she  fondle  her ;  but  she  did  not  fondle 
Agafya  either,  although  she  loved  only  her  alone. 
Agafya  and  she  were  never  separated.  It  was 
strange  to  see  them  together.  Agafya,  all  in 
black,  with  a  dark  kerchief  on  her  head,  with  a  face 
thin  and  transparent  as  wax,  yet  still  beautiful 
and  expressive,  would  sit  upright,  engaged  in 
knitting  a  stocking;  at  her  feet,  in  a  little  arm- 
chair, sat  Liza,  also  toiling  over  some  sort  of 
work,  or,  with  her  bright  eyes  uplifted  gravely, 
listening  to  what  Agafya  was  relating  to  her,  and 

216 


A  X()BLK>rAN\S  XKST 

Agafya  did  not  tell  her  fairy-stories;  in  a  meas- 
ured, even  voiee,  she  would  narrate  the  life  of  the 
Most-pure  Virgin,  the  lives  of  liie  hermits,  tin- 
saints  of  God,  of  the  holy  martyrs;  she  would  tell 
Liza  how  the  holy  men  Ii\ed  in  the  deserts,  how 
they  worked  out  their  salvation,  endured  hunner 
and  want, — and,  fearing  not  kings,  eonfessed 
Christ;  how  the  hirds  of  heaven  hrought  them 
food,  and  the  wild  heasts  oheyed  them;  how  on 
those  spots  where  their  hlood  fell,  flowers  sjjrang 
up. — '"Yellow  violets?" — one  day  asked  Li/n, 
wh(^  was  very  fond  of  flowers.  .  .  .  Agai'yn 
talked  gravely  and  meekly  to  Liza,  as  though  she 
felt  that  it  w^as  not  for  her  to  utter  sueh  lofty  and 
sacred  words.  Liza  listened  to  her  and  the 
image  of  the  Omnipresent,  Omniscient  (rod  pene- 
trated into  her  soul  with  a  cei'tain  sweet  powei-, 
filled  her  with  pure,  devout  awe,  and  Christ  he- 
came  for  her  a  person  close  to  her,  almost  a  rela- 
tive: and  Agafya  taught  her  to  pray.  Some- 
times she  woke  Liza  early,  at  davhreak,  hastilv 
dressed  her,  and  surreptitiously  took  hei-  to 
Matins:  I^iza  followed  her  on  tiptoe,  hardly 
breathing;  the  chill  and  semi-ohscurity  of  the 
dawn,  the  freshness  and  emptiness  of  the  sticets, 
the  very  mysteriousness  of  these  nnex peeled  ;ih- 
sences,  the  cautious  return  to  the  house,  to  In-d, 
all  this  mingling  of  the  forbidden,  the  strange, 
the  holy,  agitated  the  little  girl,  penetrated  into 
the  very  depths  of  her  l)eing.    iVgjifya  never  eon- 

217 


A  XOBLEMAX  S   XEST 

demned  anybody,  and  did  not  scold  Liza  for  her 
pranks.  ^Vhen  she  was  displeased  over  anything, 
she  simply  held  her  peace;  and  Liza  understood 
that  silence ;  with  the  swift  perspicacity  of  a  child, 
she  also  understood  verv  well  when  Ao'afva  was 
displeased  with  other  people — with  ^Nlarya  Dmi- 
trievna  herself,  or  with  Kalitin.  Aoafva  took 
care  of  Liza  for  a  little  more  than  three  years; 
she  was  replaced  by  ^Ille.  ^loreau;  but  the  frivo- 
lous Frenchwoman,  with  her  harsh  manners  and 
her  exclamation:  "tout  ^yi  cest  des  hctiscs," — 
could  not  erase  from  T^iza's  heart  her  beloved 
nurse:  the  seeds  which  had  been  sown  had  struck 
down  roots  too  deep.  jMoreover,  Agafya,  al- 
though she  had  ceased  to  have  charge  of  Liza,  re- 
mained in  the  house,  and  often  saw  her  nursling, 
who  confided  in  her  as  befcM-e. 

l^ut  Ao'afva  could  not  "'et  alono-  with  Marfa 
Timofeevna,  when  the  latter  came  to  live  in  the 
Kalitin  house.  The  stern  dio-nitv  of  the  former 
"  peasant  woman  "  did  not  please  the  impatient 
and  self-willed  <^ld  woman.  Agafya  begged  per- 
mission to  go  on  a  pilgrimage,  and  did  not  retiu'n. 
Dark  rumours  circulated,  to  the  effect  that  she 
had  withdrawn  to  a  convent  of  Old  Ritualists. 
But  the  traces  left  by  her  in  Lizas  soul  were  not 
effaced.  xVs  before,  the  latter  went  to  the  Liturgy 
as  to  a  festival,  prayed  with  delight,  with  a  cer- 
tain repressed  and  bashful  enthusiasm,  which  se- 
cretly amazed  >hirya  Dnu'trievna  not  a  little,  al- 

218 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NKST 

though  slie  put  no  coiistrainl  upon  Li/a,  hut 
mereh^  endeavoured  to  moderate  her  zeal,  and  did 
not  permit  her  to  make  an  exeessive  nunihcr  of 
prostrations:  that  was  not  lady-hke  niaiincis,  she 
said.  Liza  stuched  well, — that  is  to  say,  assi(hi- 
ously;  God  had  not  endowed  liei-  willi  particularly 
hrilliant  capacities,  with  a  great  mind;  she  ac- 
quired nothing  Avithout  lahour.  She  i)layed  well 
on  the  piano;  ])ut  Lemm  alone  knew  what  it  cost 
her.  She  read  little;  she  had  no  "  words  of  her 
own,"  but  she  had  thoughts  of  her  own,  and  she 
went  her  own  way.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that 
she  resembled  her  father:  he,  also,  had  not  been 
wont  to  ask  others  what  he  should  do.  Thus  she 
grew  up — quietly,  at  leisure;  thus  she  attained 
her  nineteenth  year.  She  was  very  pretty,  with- 
out herself  being  aware  of  the  fact.  An  uncon- 
scious, rather  awkward  grace  revealed  itself  in  her 
every  movement;  her  voice  rang  with  the  silvery 
sound  of  unaffected  youth,  the  slightest  sensa- 
tion of  pleasure  evoked  a  winning  smile  on  her 
lips,  imparted  a  deep  gleam  and  a  certain  mys- 
terious caress  to  her  sparkling  eyes.  Thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  sense  of  duty,  with  the  fear  of 
wounding  any  one  whatsoever,  with  a  kind  and 
gentle  heart,  she  loved  every  one  in  general,  and 
no  one  in  particular;  God  alone  she  loved  with 
rapture,  timidly,  tenderly.  Lavretzky  \vas  the 
first  to  break  in  upon  her  tranquil  inner  life. 
Such  was  I^iza. 

219 


XXXVI 

At  tM'clve  o'clock  on  the  following  day,  La- 
vretzky  set  out  for  the  Kalitins'.  On  the  way 
tliither,  he  met  Panshin,  who  galloped  past  him 
t)n  horseback,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  to  his 
verv  eyebrows.  At  the  Kalitins',  Lavretzky  was 
not  admitted, — for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
known  them.  IMarya  Dmitrievna  was  "  lying 
down," — so  the  lackey  announced;  "they"  had 
a  headache.  Neither  Marfa  Timofeevna  nor 
Lizaveta  jNIikhailovna  was  at  home.  Lavretzky 
strolled  along  the  garden,  in  anxious  hope  of 
meeting  Liza,  but  saw  no  one.  He  returned  a 
couple  of  hours  later,  and  received  the  same  an- 
swer, in  connection  with  which  the  lackey  be- 
stowed a  sidelong  glance  upon  liim.  It  seemed 
to  Lavretzky  impolite  to  intrude  himself  upon 
them  for  a  third  time  that  day — and  he  decided 
to  drive  out  to  Vasilievskoe,  where,  without  ref- 
erence to  this,  he  had  business  to  attend  to.  On 
the  way  he  constructed  various  plans,  each  more 
beautiful  than  the  other;  but  in  his  aunt's  hamlet, 
sadness  fell  upon  him;  he  entered  into  conversa- 
tion witli  Anton;  the  old  man,  as  though  ex- 
pressly, had  nothing  but  cheerless  thoughts  in  his 

220 


A  XOTU.KMAX  S    XKST 

niiiul.  He  narratctl  lo  La\rcl/ky,  liow  (ilalira 
Petroviia,  before  her  death,  had  hittcii  her  own 
hand, — and,  after  a  shoit  pause-,  lie  a(hled: 
"Everyman,  niaster---dear  little  fatlitr.  is  i/\\v]\ 
to  devouring  himself."  It  was  ahcady  late  w  lien 
Lavretzky  set  out  on  tlie  ictuiii  jouiiu  y.  'I'he 
sounds  of  the  preeeding  (hiy  took  i)ossessioii  of 
him,  the  image  of  Liza  arose  in  his  soul  in  all  its 
gentle  trans])areney :  he  melted  at  tiic  thought 
that  she  loved  him, — and  drove  up  to  his  little 
town-house  in  a  eomposed  and  haj)])y  frame  of 
mind. 

The  first  thing  whieh  struck  him  on  entering 
the  anteroom  was  the  scent  of  patcliouli,  which 
was  very  repulsive  to  him;  several  tali  trunks 
and  coffers  Avere  standing  there.  The  face  ol"  the 
valet  who  ran  forth  to  receive  him  seemed  to  him 
strange.  Without  accounting  to  himself  for  his 
impressions,  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  draw- 
ing-room  From  the  couch  there  rose  to 

greet  him  a  lady  in  a  black  gown  with  Hounces, 
and  raising  a  batiste  handkerchief  to  lier  pale 
face,  she  advanced  several  paces,  bent  her  care- 
fully-dressed head, — and  fell  at  liis  feet.  .  .  . 
Then  only  did  he  recognise  her:  the  lady  was — 
his  wife. 

It  took  his  breath  away.  .  .  He  leaned  against 
the  w^all. 

"  Theodore,  do  not  drive  me  away!  " — she  said 
in  French,  and  her  voice  cut  his  heart  like  a  knife. 

221 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

He  glaiiced  at  her  without  comprehending,  yet 
he  imniechately  noticed  that  she  had  grown  pale 
and  thin. 

"  Theodore/' — she  went  on,  from  time  to  time 
raising  her  eyes,  and  cautiously  wringing  her 
wondrously-heautifid  fingers,  with  rosy,  polished 
nails: — "  Theodore,  I  am  to  blame  toward  vou, 
deeply  to  blame, — I  will  say  more,  I  am  a  crim- 
inal ;  but  do  you  listen  to  me ;  repentance  tortures 
me,  I  have  become  a  burden  to  myself,  I  could 
not  longer  endure  my  position;  how  many  times 
have  I  meditated  returning  to  you,  but  I  feared 
your  wrath ; — I  have  decided  to  break  every  con- 
nection with  the  ]3ast  ....  inds,  j'ai  ete  si  malade, 
— I  have  been  so  ill," — she  added,  and  passed  her 
hand  across  her  brow  and  her  cheek, — "  I  have 
taken  advantage  of  the  rumour  of  my  death  which 
had  got  into  circulation,  I  have  abandoned  every- 
thing; witliout  halting,  day  and  night  I  have 
hastened  hither;  I  have  hesitated,  for  a  long  time, 
to  present  mj^self  before  you,  my  judge- — paraitre 
devant  vous,  inon  juge, — but,  at  last,  I  made  up 
my  mind,  remembering  your  invariable  kindness, 
to  come  to  j^ou;  I  learned  your  address  in  Mos- 
cow. Believe  me,"  she  continued,  softly  rising 
from  the  floor,  and  seating  lierself  on  the  very 
edge  of  an  arm-chair: — "  I  have  often  meditated 
death,  and  I  would  luive  summoned  up  sufficient 
courage  to  take  my  life — akh,  life  is  now  an  In- 
tolerable burden  to  me! — but  the  thought  of  my 

222 


A  N015LKMAX  S   XKST 

(laughter,  of  my  Adotclika,  held  mv  l)ack;  sht- 
is  here,  she  is  asleep  in  the  adjoining  room,  poor 
child!  She  is  weary, — you  sludl  see  lier:  she,  at 
least,  is  not  guilty  toward  you,  and  1  am  so  >m- 
liappy,  so  unlKijjpy!" — exclaimed  Mwiv.  i.avret- 
zky,  and  hurst  into  tears. 

Lavretzky  came  to  himself,  at  last;  lie  sep- 
arated himself  from  the  wall,  and  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"You  are  going  away?" — said  his  wife,  in 
despair: — "oh,  this  is  cruel! — Without  saying 
one  word  to  me,  without  even  one  reproach.  .  .  . 
This  scorn  is  Idlling  me,  this  is  terrible! " 

Lavretzky  stopped  short. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  wish  to  hear  from  me?  " 
—he  uttered,  in  a  toneless  voice. 

"  Nothing,  nothing," — she  caught  him  u})  with 
vivacity: — "  I  know  that  I  have  no  right  to  de- 
mand anything; — I  am  not  a  fool,  believe  me; — 
I  do  not  hope,  I  do  not  dare  to  hope  for  your 
forgiveness; — I  only  venture  to  entreat  you,  that 
you  will  give  me  directions  what  1  am  to  do, 
where  I  am  to  live? — I  will  fulfil  your  eonunand, 
whatever  it  may  be,  like  a  slave." 

"  I  have  no  commands  to  give  you," — returned 
Lavretzky,  in  the  same  voice: — "  you  know,  that 
everything  is  at  an  end  between  us  .  .  .  and 
now  more  than  ever. —  Vou  may  live  wheie  you 
see  fit; — and  if  your  allowance  is  insufficient  .  .  ." 

"Akh,  do  not  utter  such  di-eadful  words,"— 

223 


A  XOBT.EMAX  S  NEST 

Varvara  Pavlovna  interrupted  him: — -"  spare  me, 
if    only  ....  if    only    for    the    sake    of    that 

angel "     And,   as  she  said  these  words, 

Varvara  Pavlovna  flew  headlong  into  the  next 
room,  and  immediately  returned  with  a  tiny,  very 
elegantly  dressed  little  girl  in  her  arms.  Heavy, 
ruddy-gold  curls  fell  over  her  pretty,  rosy  little 
face,  over  her  large,  black,  sleepy  eyes;  she 
smiled,  and  blinked  at  the  light,  and  clung  with 
her  chubby  hand  to  her  mother's  neck. 

"Ada,  vols,  cest  ton  pere/' — said  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna, pushing  the  curls  aside  from  her  eyes,  and 
giving  her  a  hearty  kiss: — "  prie  le  avec  moi." 

"  Cest  fa,  papa? " — lisped  the  little  girl, 
brokenl5\ 

"Old,  mon  enfant,  nest  ce  pas,  que  tu  Vaimes?  " 

But  this  was  too  much  for  Lavretzky. 

"  In  what  melodrama  is  it  that  there  is  pre- 
cisely such  a  scene?  " — ^he  muttered,  and  left  the 
room. 

Varvara  Pavlovna  stood  for  a  while  rooted  to 
the  spot,  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders,  carried 
the  little  girl  into  the  other  room,  undressed  her, 
and  put  her  to  bed.  Then  she  got  a  book,  sat 
down  near  the  lamp,  waited  for  about  an  hour, 
and,  at  last,  lay  down  on  the  bed  herself. 

"l^li  hien,  madame? " — inquired  her  maid,  a 
Frenchwoman,  whom  she  had  brought  from  Paris, 
as  she  removed  her  corsets. 

"  Eh  hien,  Justine," — she  replied ; — "  he  has 

224 


A  NOTJT.KMAWS    XKST 

aged  greatly,  but  it  strikes  ww  Ilia  I  lie  is  as  good- 
natured  as  ever. — Give  nie  my  gloves  for  the 
night,  prepare  my  high-neeked  grey  gown  I'oi-  to- 
morrow; and  do  not  forget  the  mutton  (■ho])s  for 
Ada.  .  .  .  Really,  it  will  he  dillieull  lo  ol)lain 
them  here;  but  we  must  make  the  effort." 

'^A  la  guerre,  comme  a  la  guerre '' — responded 
Justine,  and  put  out  the  light. 


225 


XXXVII 

For  more  than  two  hours  Lavretzkv  roamed 
about  the  streets  of  the  town.  The  night  which  he 
had  spent  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris  recurred  to  his 
mind.  His  heart  swelled  to  bursting  within  him, 
and  in  his  head,  which  was  empty,  and,  as  it  w^ere, 
stunned,  the  same  set  of  thoughts  kept  swirling, 
—dark,  wrathful,  evil  thoughts.  "  She  is  alive, 
she  is  here,"  he  whispered,  with  constantly  aug- 
menting amazement.  He  felt  that  he  had  lost 
Liza.  Bile  choked  him ;  this  blow  had  struck  him 
too  suddenlv.  How  could  he  so  lightlv  have  be- 
lieved  the  absurd  gossip  of  a  feuilleton,  a  scrap 
of  paper?  "  Well,  and  if  I  had  not  believed  it, 
Avhat  difference  Avould  that  have  made?  I  should 
not  have  knowii  that  Liza  loves  me;  she  herself 
would  not  have  known  it."  He  could  not  banish 
from  himself  the  form,  the  voice,  the  glances  of 
his  wife  ....  and  he  cursed  himself,  cursed  every- 
thing  in  the  world. 

Worn  out,  he  arrived  toward  morning  at 
Lemm's.  For  a  long  time,  he  could  produce  no 
effect  with  his  knocking;  at  last,  the  old  man's 
head,  in  a  nightcap,  made  its  appearance  in  the 

22f> 


A  N015LKMAX  S   XKST 

window,  sour,  wrinkled,  no  JonocT  lu-arin^r  tlu- 
sliglitest  rescnihlant'f  to  tiiat  iiispirc'dlv-inorosc 
head  vvhieh,  four  and  cwenty  hours  previously, 
had  gazed  on  Lavretzky  from  tiie  lull  JKlght  of 
its  artistie  majesty. 

"  ^Vhat  do  you  want?  "— iiKpiiic d  Leinni: — 
"  I  cannot  play  every  night;  1  have  taken  a  de- 
coction."— But,  evidently,  Lavretzky's  face  was 
very  strange:  the  old  man  made  a  shield  I'oi-  liis 
eyes  out  of  his  hands,  stared  at  his  nocturnal 
visitor,  and  admitted  liim. 

Lavretzky  entered  the  room,  and  sank  down 
on  a  cliair;  the  old  man  halted  in  front  of  him, 
with  the  skirts  of  his  motley-hued,  old  dressing- 
gown  tucked  up,  writhing  and  mumhling  with 
his  lips. 

"  My  wife  has  arrived," — said  I^avretzky, 
raising  his  head,  and  suddenly  hreaking  into  an 
involuntarj^  laugh. 

Lemm's  face  expressed  surprise,  hut  he  did  not 
even  smile,  and  only  wrapped  himself  more 
closely  in  his  dressing-gown. 

You  see,  you  do  not  know," — went  on  La- 
vretzky:— "  I  imagined  ....  I  read  in  n  news- 
paper, that  she  was  no  longer  alive." 

"O — o,  3^ou  read  that  a  short  time  ago?" — 
asked  I^emm. 
1  es. 

"  O — o," — repeated  the  old  man,  and  elevated 
his  eyebrows. — "And  she  has  arrived?" 

227 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  Yes.  She  is  now  at  my  house ;  but  I  ...  I 
am  an  unhappy  man." 

And  again  he  broke  into  a  hiugh. 

"  You  are  an  unhappy  man,"  —  repeated 
Lemm,  slowly. 

"  Christofor  Feodoritch," — began  Lavretzky: 
— "  will  you  undertake  to  deliver  a  note?  " 

"  H'm.     May  I  inquire,  to  whom?" 

"To  Liza.  .'.  ." 

"  Ah, — yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Very  well. 
But  when  must  the  note  be  delivered?" 

"  To-morrow,  as  early  as  possible." 

"  H'm.  I  can  send  Katrina,  my  cook.  No,  I 
will  go  myself." 

"  And  will  vou  bring  me  the  answer?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will." 

liemm  sighed. 

"  Yes,  my  poor  young  friend ;  you  really  are 
— an  vmhappy  man." 

Lavretzky  wrote  a  couple  of  words  to  Liza: 
he  informed  her  of  his  wife's  arrival,  begged  her 
to  appoint  a  meeting, — and  flung  himself  on  the 
narrow  divan,  face  to  the  wall;  and  the  old  man 
lay  down  on  the  bed,  and  tossed  about  for  a  long 
time,  coughing  and  taking  sips  of  his  decoction. 

IVIorning  came:  they  both  rose.  With  strange 
eyes  they  gazed  at  each  other.  Lavretzky  wanted 
to  kill  himself  at  that  moment.  The  cook,  Ka- 
trina, brought  tliem  some  bad  coffee.  The  clock 
struck  eight.     Lemm  put  on  his  hat,  and  saying 

228 


A  NOT^T.KMAX  S   XKST 

that  he  had  a  lesson  lo  <»i\('  al  the  Kali'tins'  at 
nine,  hut  that  lie  would  find  a  deecMit  |)iiU\l,  set 
out.  Lavretzky  again  Hung  hinisell"  on  I  he  little 
couch,  and  again,  from  the  depths  ol'  liis  soul,  a 
sorrowful  laugh  welled  up.  lie  tiiouglit  of  how 
his  wife  had  driven  him  out  of  his  house;  lie  pic- 
tured to  himself  Liza  s  position,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  threw  his  hands  hehjnd  his  Jicad.  At  last 
Lemm  retiu'ned,  and  hrought  him  a  scrap  of  pa- 
per, on  which  Liza  had  scrawled  with  pencil  the 
following  words:  "  We  cannot  see  each  other  to- 
day; perhaps — to-morrow  evening.  I'arewell." 
Lavretzky  quietly  and  abstractedly  thanked 
Lemm,  and  went  to  his  own  house. 

He  found  his  wife  at  breakfast;  Ada,  all  curls, 
in  a  white  frock  M'ith  blue  ribl)ons,  was  eating  a 
mutton  chop.  Varvara  Pavlovna  immediately 
rose,  as  soon  as  Lavretzky  entered  the  room,  and 
approached  him,  witli  humility  (lej)ieted  on  lur 
face.  He  requested  her  to  follow  him  to  his 
study,  locked  the  door  behind  liim,  and  began  to 
stride  to  and  fro;  she  sat  down,  laid  one  hand 
modestly  on  the  other,  and  began  to  watch  liini 
w^ith  her  still  beautiful,  although  slightly  painted 
'eyes. 

For  a  long  time  Lavretzky  did  not  speak:  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  control  himself:  he  per- 
ceived clearly,  that  Varvara  PavloN  na  was  not  in 
the  least  afraid  of  him,  but  was  assuming  the  air 
of  being  on  the  very  verge  of  falling  into  a  swoon. 

2*20 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  Listen,  madam,"— he  began,  at  last,  breath- 
ing heavily  at  times,  grinding  liis  teeth: — "  there 
is  no  necessity  for  our  dissembling  with  each 
other;  I  do  not  believe  in  your  repentance;  and 
even  if  it  were  genuine,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
become  reconciled  to  you,  to  live  with  you  again." 

Varvara  Pavlovna  compressed  her  lips  and 
narrowed  her  eyes.  "  This  is  disgust," — she 
thought: — ^"  of  course!  I  am  no  longer  even  a 
woman  to  him." 

"  It  is  imjjossible," — repeated  Lavretzky,  and 
buttoned  up  his  coat  to  the  throat. — "  I  do  not 
know  whv  you  have  taken  it  into  your  head  to 
come  hither:  probably,  you  have  no  money 
left." 

"Alas!  you  are  insulting  me," — whispered 
Varvara  Pavlovna. 

"  However  that  may  be, — you  are,  unliappily, 
my  wife,  nevertheless.  I  cannot  turn  you  out 
....  and  this  is  what  I  have  to  propose  to  you. 
You  may  set  out,  this  very  day,  if  you  like,  for 
Lavriki,  and  live  there;  the  house  is  good,  as  you 
know;  you  will  receive  all  that  is  necessary,  m 
addition  to  your  allowance.  .  .  .  Do  you  agree?  " 

Varvara  Pavlovna  raised  her  embroidered 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  already  told  you," — she  said,  her  lips 
twitching  nervously: — "  that  I  shall  agree  to  any- 
thing whatever  you  may  see  fit  to  do  with  me:  on 
this  occasion,  nothing  is  left  for  me  to  do,  except 

230 


A  NOBLK.MAX  S   XKST 

to  ask  you:  will  you  permit  mc,  at  least,  to  thank 
you  for  your  niagiiauiniity!;  " 

"  No  gratitude,  I  beg  of  you;  il  is  Ixtlcr  so," — 
hastily  returned  Lavretzkv. — "  Aceordiimlv," — 
he  went  on,  ai)i)roaehing  tlie  door:  -"  I  may 
count  upon  .  .  .  ." 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  be  at  I^avriki," — said  \'ar- 
vara  Pavlovna,  respectfully  rising  from  her  seat, 
— "  But,  Feodor  Ivanitch  "  (she  no  longer  ealkd 
him  Theodore)  .... 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  I  know  that  I  have,  as  yet,  in  no  way  eanud 
my  forgiveness;  may  I  hope,  at  least,  in 
time  ,  .  .  ." 

"  Ekh,  Varvjira  Pavlovna,"^ — I^avretzky  in- 
terrupted her: — "  you  are  a  clever  woman,  and  as 
I  am  not  a  fool,  I  know  that  that  is  (|uite  un- 
necessary for  you.  And  I  forgave  you  long  ago: 
but  there  was  always  a  gulf  between  us." 

"  I  shall  know  how  to  submit," — replied  Var- 
vara  Pavlovna,  and  bowed  her  head.  "  I  lia\e 
not  forgotten  my  fault;  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  you  were  even  delighted 
at  the  news  of  my  death," — .she  added  gently, 
pointing  slightly  with  her  hand  at  the  eoi)y  ol"  the 
newspaper  which  lay  on  the  table,  forgotten  1>\ 
Lavretzky. 

Feodor  Tvaniteli  shuddered:  the  Ceuillrtoii  was 
marked  with  a  pencil.  Varvara  Pavlovna  gazed 
at  him  with  still  greater  humility.     She  was  very 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

pretty  at  that  moment.  Her  grey  Paris  gown 
"■racefnllv  clotlied  licr  willowy  form,  M'hich  was 
almost  that  of  a  girl  of  seventeen;  her  slender, 
(U'licate  neck  encircled  with  a  white  collar,  her 
bosom  which  rose  and  fell  evenly,  her  arms  de- 
void of  bracelets  and  rings, — her  whole  figure, 
from  her  shining  hair  to  the  tip  of  her  barely 

revealed  little  boot,  was  so  elegant 

Lavretzky  swept  an  angry  glance  over  her, 
came  near  exclaiming: ''  Brava!  "  came  near  smit- 
ing her  in  the  temple  M'ith  his  fist — and  left 
the  room.  An  hour  later,  he  had  already  set  out 
for  A'^asilievskoe,  and  two  hours  later,  Varvara 
Pavlovna  gave  orders  that  the  best  carriage  in 
town  should  be  engaged,  donned  a  simple  straw 
hat  with  a  black  veil,  and  a  modest  mantle,  en- 
trusted Ada  to  Justine,  and  set  out  for  the  Kali- 
tins:  from  the  inquiries  instituted  by  her  servant 
she  had  learned  that  her  husband  was  in  the  habit 
of  going  to  them  every  day. 


232 


XXXNIII 

The  day  oi'  the  aiTi\al  oT  La\  irt/.k\  s  wife  in 
town  of  ()  *  *  *,  a  du'crk'ss  day  InV  liim,  was 
also  a  painful  day  lor  Liza.  She  had  not  snc- 
ceeded  in  going  down-stairs  and  hidchng  Ikt 
mother  "  good  morning,"  hd'orc  tin-  tramphng  of 
a  horse's  hoofs  resounded  under  the  window,  and 
with  secret  terror  she  heheld  Pansliiu  ridino-  into 
the  yard:  "  He  has  presented  himself  thus  carlv 
for  a  definitive  explanation,"— she  tliought  and 
she  was  not  mistaken;  after  spending  a  whili-  in 
the  drawing-room,  he  suggested  that  she  should 
go  with  him  into  the  garden,  and  demanded  lier 
decision  as  to  his  fate.  Li/a  summoned  np  Ik  r 
courage,  and  informed  him  that  she  could  not  he 
his  wife.  He  hstened  to  her  to  the  end,  as  he 
stood  wdth  his  side  toward  her,  and  his  hat  j)ulle(l 
down  on  his  hrows;  courteously,  I)ut  in  an  altered 
tone,  he  asked  her:  was  that  hei  last  '.void,  and 
had  he,  in  any  way,  given  hei-  cause  for  such  a 
change  in  her  ideas^  then  lie  ])ressed  his  lunid  to 
his  eyes,  sighed  hriefly  and  ahruj)tly,  and  removed 
his  hand  from  his  face. 

"  I  have  not  wished  to  follow  the  heaten  i)atii.  " 
— he  said,  in  a  dull  voice, — "  I  have  wished  to  find 

'2Xi 


A  XOBLEMAX  S  XEST 

my  companion  after  the  inclination  of  the  heart; 
but.  evidently,  that  was  not  destined  to  be.  Fare- 
well,  dream!" — He  bowed  profoundl}^  to  Liza, 
and  returned  to  the  house. 

She  hoped  that  he  would  immediately  take  his 
departure ;  but  he  went  into  Marya  Dmitrievna's 
boudoir,  and  sat  with  her  for  about  an  hour.  As 
he  went  awav,  he  said  to  Liza:  "  Voire  mere  vous 
appelle;  adieu  a  jamais  .  .  "  mounted  his  horse, 
and  set  off  from  the  very  porch  at  full  gallop. 
Liza  went  in  to  ^Nlarya  Dmitrievna,  and  found 
her  in  tears :  Panshin  had  communicated  to  her  his 
misfortune. 

"Why  hast  thou  killed  me?  Why  hast  thou 
killed  me?  " — in  this  wise  did  the  mortified  widow 
begin  her  complaints. — "  AVhom  else  didst  thou 
want?  What!  is  not  he  a  suitable  husband  for 
thee?  A  Junior  Gentleman  of  the  Emperor's 
Bedchamber!  not  interessant!  He  might  marry 
any  INIaid  of  Honour  he  chose  in  Petersburg. 
And  I — I  had  been  hoping  so!  And  hast  thou 
changed  long  toward  him?  What  has  sent  this 
cloud  drifting  hither — it  did  not  come  of  itself! 
Can  it  be  that  ninny?  A  pretty  counsellor  thou 
hast  found ! 

"  And  he,  my  dear  one," — pursued  Marya 
Dmitrievna: — "how  respectful,  how  attentive, 
even  in  his  own  grief!  Pie  has  promised  not  to 
abandon  me.  Akh,  I  shall  not  survive  this!  Akh, 
I  have  got  a  deadly  headache.     Send  Palasha  to 

234 


A  NOHLKMAX'S   XKST 

me.  Thou  wilt  l)e  the  death  of  inc  if  thou  dost 
not  change  thy  mind, — dost  tliou  hearT'  And 
calHng  lier  an  ingrate  a  eouj)k'  of  limes,  Marva 
Dnn'trievna  sent  Liza  away. 

She  went  to  her  own  room.  But  before  she  liad 
time  to  recover  her  breath  from  her  explanation 
with  Panshin  and  her  mother,  another  thunder- 
storm broke  over  her,  and  this  time  from  a  (juar- 
ter  whence  she  had  least  ex])eeted  it.  MVul'a 
Timofeevna  entered  her  room,  and  immediately 
slammed  the  door  behind  her.  The  old  woman's 
face  was  pale,  her  cap  was  awry,  her  eyes  were 
flashing,  her  hands  and  lips  were  tix-mbHiig. 
Liza  was  amazed:  never  before  had  she  seen  her 
sensible  and  reasonable  aunt  in  such  a  state. 

"Very  fine,  madam," — began  Marfa  Timo- 
feevna, in  a  tremulous  and  broken  whisper:  "  ^•ery 
fine  indeed!  From  whom  hast  thou  learned  this, 
my  mother?  .  .  .  Give  me  water;  I  cannot  sj)eak." 

"  Calm  yourself,  aimtv;  what  is  the  matter  witli 
you?  " — said  Liza,  giving  her  a  glass  of  water. — 
"  Why,  you  yourself  did  not  favour  Mr.  P.-in- 
shin." 

Marfa  Timofeevna  set  down  the  glass. 

"  I  cannot  drink:  I  shall  knock  out  my  last  rt- 
maininff  teeth.  What  dost  thou  mean  i)v  Pan- 
shfn?  What  has  Panshin  to  do  with  it  ^  Do  tlmn 
tell  me,  rather,  who  taught  thee  to  appoint  iriule/- 
vous  by  night — hey?  my  mother?  " 

Liza  turned  pale. 

235 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

"  Please  do  not  think  of  excusing  thyself," — 
continued  Mdvi'n  Timofeevna. — "  Schurotchka 
herself  saw  all,  and  told  me.  I  have  forbidden 
her  to  chatter,  but  she  does  not  lie." 

"  I  have  made  no  excuses,  aunty," — said  Liza, 
in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

"All,  ah!  Now,  see  here,  my  mother;  didst 
thou  appoint  a  meeting  with  him,  with  that  old 
sinner,  that  quiet  man?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  how  did  it  come  about? " 

"  I  went  down-stairs,  to  the  drawing-room,  for 
a  book;  he  was  in  the  garden,  and  called  me." 

"And  thou  wentest?  Very  fine.  And  thou 
lovest  him,  dost  thou  not?  " 

"  I  do," — replied  Liza,  in  a  tranquil  voice. 

"Gracious  heavens!  she  loves  him!" — Marfa 
Timof  eevna  tore  off  her  cap. — "  She  loves  a  mar- 
ried man!    Hey?  she  loves!  " 

"  He  told  me," — began  Liza  .... 

"  What  did  he  tell  thee,  the  darling,  wha-at 
was  it?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  his  wife  was  dead." 

INIarfa  Timofeevna  crossed  herself. — "  The 
kingdom  of  heaven  be  hers," — she  whispered: — 
"she  was  a  frivolous  woman — God  forgive  her. 
So  that 's  how  it  is:  then  he  's  a  wddower.  Yes,  I 
see  that  he  is  equal  to  anything.  Pie  killed  off  his 
first  wife,  and  now  he  's  after  another.  Thou  art 
a  sly  one,  art  thou  not?  Only,  this  is  what  I  have 
to  say  to  thee,  niece:  in  my  time,  w-hen  I  was 

236 


A  NOBT.K.MAN  S   \KST 

young,  girls  were  severely  pnriislicd  tor  siieli 
capers.  Thou  must  uol  he  angry  witli  hk  .  my 
mother;  only  fools  get  angry  at  the  trulii.  1  li;i\  e 
given  orders  that  he  is  not  to  he  admiltcd  to-day. 
I  am  fond  of  him,  hut  I  shall  ne\cr  lorgivt-  liiin 
for  this.  A  w  idowei-,  forsooth!  (iive  me  some 
water.  .  .  ]5ut  thou  art  my  hrave  girl,  for  send- 
ing Panshin  off  with  a  long  face;  only.  d( 1  sit 

out  nights  with  that  goat's  hreed, — with  men, 
do  not  grieve  me,  an  old  woman!     Vov  I  am  not 
always  amiahle — I  know  how  to  hite,  also!  .   .   .   . 
A  widower!  " 

]Marfa  Timofeevna  departed,  hut  Liza  sat 
down  in  the  corner  and  hegan  to  cry.  She  I'elt 
hitter  in  soul;  she  had  not  deserved  such  humilia- 
tion. Her  love  had  not  announced  its  presence 
by  cheerfulness;  this  was  the  second  time  she  had 
wept  since  the  night  hefore.  That  new.  unex- 
pected feeling  had  barely  come  to  life  in  her 
heart  when  she  had  had  to  pay  so  heavily  for  it, 
when  strange  hands  had  roughly  touched  her 
private  secret!  She  felt  ashamed,  and  |);iiiu(l. 
and  bitter:  but  there  was  neither  doubt  noi-  terror 
in  her, — and  l^avretzky  became  all  the  deaitr  to 
her.  She  had  hesitated  as  long  as  she  did  not 
understand  herself;  but  after  that  meeting  she 
could  hesitate  no  longer;  she  knew  that  she  lo\ed, 
— and  had  fallen  in  love  h.onouiably.  not  .jest- 
ingly, she  had  become  strongly  attached,  lor  her 
whole  life;  she  felt  that  force  could  not  break 
that  bond. 

237 


XXXIX 

Marya  Dmitrievna  was  greatly  perturbed 
when  the  arrival  of  Varvara  Pavlovna  was  an- 
nounced to  her;  she  did  not  even  know  whether 
to  receive  her;  she  was  afraid  of  offending  Feo- 
dor  Ivanitch.  At  last,  curiosity  carried  the  day. 
"  What  of  it?  " — she  said  to  herself, — "  why,  she 
is  a  relative  also," — and  seating  herself  in  her 
arm-chair,  she  said  to  the  lackey:  "Ask  her  in!  " 
Several  minutes  elapsed;  the  door  opened,  Var- 
vara Pavlovna  approached  INIarya  Dmitrievna 
swiftly,  with  barely  audible  footsteps,  and,  with- 
out giving  her  a  chance  to  rise  from  her  chair, 
almost  went  down  on  her  knees  before  her. 

"  Thank  you,  aunty,"^ — she  began  in  a  touched 
and  gentle  voice,  in  Russian:  "thank  you!  1 
had  not  hoped  for  such  condescension  on  your 
part;  you  are  as  kind  as  an  angel." 

As  she  uttered  these  words,  Varvara  Pavlovna 
unexpectedly  took  possession  of  one  of  Marya 
Dmitrievna's  liands,  and  pressing  it  lightly  in  her 
pale-lilac  gloves,  obsequiously  i-aised  it  to  her  full, 
rosy  lips.  Marya  Dmitrievna  completely  lost 
her  head,  on  beholding  such  a  beautiful,  charm- 
ingly-dressed woman,  almost  on  her  knees  at  her 

238 


A  noble:max\s  XKST 

feet;  slic  did  iiol  know  wlmt  lo  d,,.;  she  did  not 
wish  to  withdraw  her  hand,  sht-  wislicd  to  ^ivc 
her  a  seat,  and  to  say  soniethinn-  aiMial)le  to  ht  r; 
she  ended  hy  risino-,  and  kissino-  \'arvaia  Pav- 
lovna  on  her  sni(K>tli.  i'l-a^^Tanl  l)i()\\.  \'ai\.iia 
Pavlovna  was  perfectly  (hind'oundcd  hy  this  kiss. 

"Good    morning, — bon    jo////'     said     .M.iiya 

Dmitrievna: — "of  conrsc,   I   liad  no  i(l(  a 

however,  of  course,  1  am  dehglited  to  see  yon. 
You  understand,  my  dear, — it  is  not  for  me  to  sit 
in  judgme?it  hetween  wife  and  liushand." 

"  JNIv  hushand  is  wliollv  in  the  right,"  V-av- 
xiira  Pavlovna  interrupted  her: — "  I  alone  am  to 
blame." 

"  That  is  a  very  praisewortliy  sentiment," — 
returned  Marva  Dmitrievna: — "  very.  Have 
you  been  here  long?  Have  you  seen  hirnf  Hut 
sit  dovvn,  pray." 

"  I  arrived  yesterday," — replied  A'arviira  Pa\  - 
lovna,  meekly  seating  herself  on  a  cliair:  '  I  have 
seen  Feodor  Ivanitcli,  I  liave  talked  with  liiiii.  " 

"  Ah!   Well,  and  hoAv  does  he  take  it  (  " 

"  I  was  afraid  that  my  sudden  ai  ri\al  would 
arouse  his  wrath," — went  on  Varviira  P;i\l()\na: 
— "  but  he  did  not  deprive  me  of  his  presence." 

"  That  is  to  say,  he  did  not  ....  ^\'s,  yes,  1 
understand," — ejaculated  M/irya  Dmitriex  iia.— 
"  He  is  only  rather  rougli  in  a|)pearane( .  hut  his 
heart  is  soft." 

"Feodor   Ivanitcli    has    not    lorgixen    nu  :    lie 


A  XOBT.EMAX'S  NEST 

would  not  listen  to  nie.  .  .  .  But  lie  was  so  kind 
as  to  appoint  Lavriki  for  my  place  of  residence." 

"  Ah!    ^V  very  fine  estate!  " 

"  I  set  out  thither  to-morrow,  in  compliance 
with  his  will ;  but  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  call 
on  you  first." 

"  I  am  very,  very  grateful  to  you,  my  dear. 
One  must  never  forget  one's  relatives.  And,  do 
you  know,  I  am  astonished  that  you  speak  Rus- 
sian so  well.    C'est  ctonnaut!" 

Varvara  Pavlovna  sighed. 

"  I  have  spent  too  much  time  abroad,  INIarya 
Dmitrievna,  I  know  that;  but  my  heart  has  al- 
ways been  Russian,  and  I  have  not  forgotten  my 
native  land." 

"  Exactly  so,  exactly  so ;  that  is  the  best  of  all. 
Feodor  Ivanitch,  however,  did  not  in  the  least  ex- 
pect you.  .  .  .  Yes;  believe  my  experience;  la 
patrie  avant  tout.  Akh,  please  show  me, — what  a 
charming  mantle  that  is  you  have  on ! " 

"Do  you  like  it?"  —  Varvara  Pavlovna 
promptly  dropped  it  from  her  shoulders. — "  It 
is  a  very  simple  thing,  from  ]Madame  Baudran." 

"  That  is  instantly  perceptible.  From  Madame 
Baudran.  .  .  .  How  charming,  and  what  taste! 
I  am  convinced  that  you  have  brought  with  you 
a  mass  of  the  most  entrancing  things.  I  should 
like  to  look  them  over." 

"  My  entire  toilette  is  at  your  service,  my  dear- 
est aunt.     If  you  will  ])ermit,  I  can  give  your 

240 


A  XoniJvMAWS    XKST 

maid  some  points.      I   li.ivc-  a  maid-scrxanl    f,om 
Paris, — a  woiidci  lul  seamstress." 

"You  are  very  kind,  my  dear.  Hul.  really.  I 
am  ashamed." 

"Ashamed!  .  .  ."  repeated  Vaivara  IVivlovna. 
reproachfidly.— "  If  you  wish  to  make  me  lia|)j)y, 
— command  me,  as  thonnh  I  helon^e,!  i,,  you." 

^larya  Dmitrievna  tliawed. 

"Vous  ctes  charmanic,"  she  said.—"  Hul  uiiy 
do  not  you  take  off  your  honnet,  your  n loves?  " 

"  What?  You  permit?  "—asked  Yarvara  l»av- 
lovna,  clasping  her  liands,  as  though  with  emotion. 

"  Of  course;  for  vou  will  dine  with  us.  I  hope. 
I  ....  I  will  introduce  you  to  mv  (humhter." — 
Marya  Dmitrievna  hecame  slightly  eonfnsed. 
"  Well!  here  goes!  "—she  said  to  liei-scll'.  "  She 
is  not  quite  well  to-day." 

"Oh,  ma  laiilc,  how  kind  you  are!" — ex- 
claimed Yarvara  Pavlovna,  and  raised  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes. 

A  page  announced  the  arrival  of  (iede(')no\  sky. 
The  old  chatterl)ox  entered,  made  his  hows,  and 
smiled.  INIarya  Dmitrievna  presented  him  lo  lici- 
visitor.  He  came  near  heing  discomfited  at  jiist : 
but  Yarvara  Pavlovna  treated  him  with  such 
coquettish  respect,  that  his  eai's  hegan  lo  l>iini. 
and  fibs,  scandals,  amiable  remarks  ti'iekled  out 
of  his  mouth  like  lioney.  \"ar\'ara  l\i\  lo\  iia  lis- 
tened to  him  with  a  rej)i-essed  smile,  and  heeanie 
rather   talkative   herself.      She   modestly    talke'l 

241 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

about  Paris,  about  ber  travels,  about  Baden; 
twice  slie  made  Marya  Diiiitrievna  laugb,  and  on 
eacb  occasion  sbe  beaved  anotber  bttle  sigb,  as 
tbou<>li  slie  were  mentally  reproaciiing  berself  for 
ber  ill-timed  mirtb;  sbe  asked  permission  to  bring 
Ada ;  removing  ber  gloves,  she  showed,  with  her 
smooth  liands  washed  with  soap  a  la  guimauve , 
bow  and  where  flounces,  ruches,  lace,  and  knots 
of  ribbon  were  worn;  she  promised  to  bring  a 
phial  of  the  new^  English  })erfume,  Victoria's  Es- 
sence, and  rejoiced  like  a  child  when  INIarya  Dmi- 
trievna  consented  to  accept  it  as  a  gift ;  she  wept 
at  the  remembrance  of  the  feeling  sbe  bad  ex- 
perienced when,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  beard 
the  Russian  bells; — "so  profoundly  did  they 
stagger  my  very  heart," — she  said. 

At  that  moment,  Liza  entered. 

From  the  morning,  from  the  very  moment 
when,  chilled  with  terror,  she  had  perused  La- 
vretzky's  note,  I^iza  had  been  preparing  herself 
to  meet  his  wife;  sbe  bad  a  presentiment  that  she 
should  see  her,  by  w^ay  of  ])unisbment  to  her  own 
criminal  hopes,  as  she  called  them.  She  bad  made 
up  her  mind  not  to  shun  her.  The  sudden  cri- 
sis in  her  fate  bad  shaken  her  to  the  very  foun- 
dations; in  the  course  of  about  two  hours  ber 
face  had  grown  haggard;  but  sbe  did  not  shed 
a  tear.  "  It  serves  me  riglit !  " — she  said  to  lier- 
self,  witli  difficulty  and  agitation  suppressing  in 
her  soul  certain  bitter,  spiteful  impulses,  which 

242 


A  NOHLKMAX'S   XKST 

alarmed  even  herself*:— "  Conie,  1  imist  ^o 
down!"— she  thought,  as  soon  as  slic  heard  of 
Mme.  Lavretzky's  .-iiTivMl.  and  slic  uinl. 
For  a  lon<>-  time  she  stood  outside  liie  door  ol'  the 
drawing-room.  Ijel'oi-e  she  eould  hiing  lieisell'  to 
open  it;  with  tiie  thought:  "  I  am  to  hiame  toward 
her," — she  erossed  the  threshold,  and  CokkI  Ikt- 
self  to  look  at  her,  foreed  herself  to  smih  .  \'ar- 
vara  Pavlovna  advaneed  to  meet  lier  as  soon  as 
she  saw  her,  arid  made  a  slight  hut  ne\t  rtlii-less 
respectful  inclination  hefore  her. — "  Allow  me 
to  introduce  myself," — siie  hegaii,  in  an  insin- 
uating voice: — ''  youv  ni  a  in  an  is  so  indulgent  to- 
ward me,  that  I  hope  you  will  also  he kind.  " 

The  expression  on  Varvara  Pa\io\iia*s  I'aee,  as 
she  uttered  this  last  word,  her  sly  smile,  he  r  cold 
and  at  the  same  time  soft  glance,  the  movement 
of  her  arms  and  shoulders,  her  very  gown,  her 
whole  being,  aroused  in  Liza  such  a  feeling  of 
repulsion,  that  she  could  make  her  no  answer,  and 
with  an  effort  she  offered  her  hand.  "  Tiiis 
young  lady  despises  me,"- — thought  \'ai\ara 
Pavlovna,  as  she  wannly  pressed  Liza's  cold  fin- 
gers, and,  turning  to  ^Nlarya  l)mitrie\  na.  she  said 
in  an  undertone:  ''Mais  cllr  csf  (Ii'l/ciciisi!  "  Li/a 
flushed  faintly,  insult  was  audihle  to  lui-  in  this 
exclamation;  but  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to 
trust  her  impressions,  and  seated  herself  l»y  the 
window,  at  her  embroidery-frame.  Kven  then-. 
Varvara  Pavlovna  did  not  leave  her  in  peace:  she 

243 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

went  up  to  her,  began  to  praise  her  taste,  her 
art.  .  .  .  liiza's  heart  beat  violently  and  pain- 
fully, slie  could  hardly  control  herself,  she  could 
liardly  sit  still  on  her  chair.  It  seemed  to  her 
tliat  Varviira  Pavlovna  knew  everything,  and, 
secretly  triumphing,  was  jeering  at  her.  For- 
tunately for  lier,  Gedeonovsky  entered  into  con- 
versation with  \^arvara  Pavlovna,  and  distracted 
her  attention.  Liza  bent  over  her  embroidery- 
frame,  and  stealthily  watched  her.  "  He  loved 
that  Avoman," — she  said  to  herself.  But  she  im- 
mediately banished  from  her  head  the  thought  of 
Lavretzky:  she  was  afraid  of  losing  control  over 
herself,  she  felt  that  her  head  was  softly  whirling. 
jNIarya  Dmitrievna  began  to  talk  about  music. 

"  I  have  heard,  my  dear," — she  began: — "  that 
you  are  a  wonderful  performer." 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  j^layed," — re- 
plied Varvara  Pavlovna,  as  she  seated  herself,  in 
a  leisurely  manner,  at  the  piano,  and  ran  her  fin- 
gers in  a  dashing  way  over  the  keys. — "  Would 
you  like  to  have  me  play?  " 

"  Pray  do." 

Varvara  Pavlovna  played  a  brilliant  and  diffi- 
cult etude  of  Herz  in  a  masterly  style.  She  had 
a  great  deal  of  strength  and  execution. 

"A  sylph!" — exclaimed  Gedeonovsky. 

"Remarkable!" — assented  INIarya  Dmitri- 
evna.— "  Well,  Varvara  Pavlovna,  I  must  con- 
fess,"— she  said,  calling  her,  for  the  first  time, 

244 


A  NOBLEMAN  S   XKST 

by  her  name: — "  yoii  Imve  amazed  me;  you  mi^^lit 
even  give  concerts.  \\c  have-  an  old  musician 
here,  a  (German,  an  eccentric  fellow,  \(r\-  learned; 
he  gives  Liza  lessons:  he  will  simply  go  out  oi' 
his  mind  over  you." 

"  Lizaveta  ^likliailovna  is  also  a  mnsiciaFJ?  " — 
inquired  Varvara  Pavlovna,  turning  her  head 
shglitly  in  her  direction. 

"  Yes,  she  plays  qnite  well,  and  loves  music; 
but  what  does  that  signify,  in  comparison  uilli 
you?  But  there  is  a  young  man  liere;  you  ought 
to  make  his  acquaintance.  lie  is — an  artist  in 
soul,  and  composes  very  prettily.  lie  is  the  only 
one  who  can  fully  ai)i)reciate  you." 

"  A  young  man?  " — said  Varvjira  Pavlovna. — 
"  Who  is  he?     Some  poor  fellow?  " 

"  Good  gracious, — he  's  our  chief  cavalier,  and 
not  among  us  only — et  a  Pctershonrg.  A  Junior 
Gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber,  received  in  the 
best  society.  You  certainly  must  have  heard  of 
him, — Panshin,  Vladimir  Xikolaitch.  He  is  here 
on  a  government  commission  ....  a  future  jNIin- 
ister,  upon  my  word !  " 

"  And  an  artist?  " 

"  An  artist  in  soul,  and  such  a  charming  fel- 
low. You  shall  see  him.  He  lias  been  at  my 
house  very  frequently  of  late;  I  have  invited  Iiim 
for  this  evening;  I  hoj>e  that  he  will  come," — 
added  Marya  Dmitrievna,  with  a  gentle  sigli  and 
a  sidelong  bitter  smile. 


24.5 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  XEST 

lAza  understood  the  significance  of  that  smile; 
hut  she  cared  nothing  for  it. 

"  And  is  he  young?  " — repeated  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna,  hghtly  modulating  from  one  key  to  an- 
other. 

"  He  is  eight  and  twenty — and  of  the  most 
happy  personal  apj^earance.  Un  jeune  liomme 
accompli,  upon  my  word." 

"  A  model  young  man,  one  may  say," — re- 
marked Gedeonovskv. 

Varvara  Pavlovna  suddenly  began  to  play  a 
noisy  Strauss  waltz,  which  started  with  such  a 
mighty  and  rapid  trill  as  made  even  Gedeonov- 
sky  start;  in  the  very  middle  of  the  waltz,  she 
abruptly  changed  into  a  mournful  motif,  and 
wound  up  with  the  aria  from  "Lucia":  "  Fra 
poco."  .  .  .  She  had  reflected  that  merry  music 
was  not  compatible  with  her  situation.  The  aria 
from  "  Lucia,"  with  emphasis  on  the  sentimental 
notes,  greatly  affected  JMarya  Dmitrievna. 

"What  soul!  ' — she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  to 
Gedeonovskv. 

"A  sylph!" — repeated  Gedeonovsky,  and 
rolled  his  eyes  heavenward. 

Dinner-time  arrived.  ]Marfa  Timofeevna 
came  down-stairs  when  the  soup  was  already 
standing  on  the  table.  She  treated  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna very  coolly,  replying  with  half-words  to  her 
amiabilities,  and  not  looking  at  her.  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna  herself   sj)eedily   comprehended   that    she 

246 


A  XOTU.EMAX  S    \  KS  r 

could  do  notliing  wiHi  11,^  old  uoiiiaii,  and  erased 
to  address  her;  on  the  otlur  hand,  Marva  Dmi- 
trievna  became  more  affectionate  than  cxci-  with 
her  guest:  her  aunt's  discourtesy  cnra«>c(i  |i,.|-. 
However,  Varvara  Pavlovna  was  no!  the  onlx 
person  at  whom  Marfa  TiniofVcv na  idnMd  to 
look:  she  never  cast  a  glanee  at  Li/.a,  (.itiu  r,  al- 
though her  eyes  fairly  flashed.  She  sal  like  a 
stone  image,  all  sallow,  pale,  with  tightly  com- 
pressed lips — and  ate  nothing.  Li/a  seemed  to 
be  composed;  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  all  had 
become  more  traufjuil  in  her  soul;  a  strange  in- 
sensibility, the  insensibility  of  the  man  condemned 
to  death,  had  come  upon  her.  At  dinner  \^ii\;ira 
Pavlovna  talked  little:  she  seemed  to  iiave  be- 
come timid  once  more,  and  spread  over  her  face 
an  expression  of  modest  melancholy,  (rcded- 
novsky  alone  enlivened  the  conversation  with  liis 
tales,  although  he  kept  casting  cowardly  glances 
at  Marfa  Timofeevna,  and  a  cough  and  tickling 
in  the  throat  seized  upon  him  every  time  that  he 
undertook  to  lie  in  her  presence, — but  she  did  rn>t 
hinder  him,  she  did  not  jntcrmpt  him.  Altii- 
dinner  it  appeared  that  Varvjira  1M\  loMia  was 
extremely  fond  of  preference:  this  pleasi-d  Ma- 
rya  Dmitrievna  to  such  a  degree,  that  she  i\t(i 
became  o-reatlv  affected,  and  thouuht  to  herself: 
— "  But  what  a  fool  Feodor  Ixanitch  must  he:  he 
was  not  able  to  appreciate  such  a  woman! 

She   sat    down    to    })lay    cai-ds    with    her    and 

247 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

Gedeonovsky,  while  ^liirfa  Timofeevna  led  Liza 
off  to  her  own  rooms  iip-stairs,  saying  that  she 
looked  ill,  that  her  head  must  be  aching. 

"  Yes,  she  has  a  frightful  headache," — said 
JNIarya  Dmitrievna,  turning  to  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna,  and  rolling  up  her  eyes. — "  I  myself  have 

such  sick-headaches "     Liza  entered  her 

aunt's  room  and  dropped  on  a  chair,  exhausted. 
Miirfa  Timofeevna  gazed  at  her  for  a  long  time, 
in  silence,  knelt  down  softly  in  front  of  her — and 
began,  in  the  same  speechless  manner,  to  kiss 
her  hands,  in  turn.  Liza  leaned  forward,  blushed, 
and  fell  to  weeping,  but  did  not  raise  jNIarfa 
Timofeevna,  did  not  v/itlidraw  her  hands:  she 
felt  that  she  had  not  the  right  to  withdraw  them, 
had  not  the  right  to  prevent  the  old  woman  show- 
ing her  contrition,  her  sympathy,  asking  her  par- 
don for  M'hat  had  taken  place  on  the  day  before; 
and  JNIarfa  Timofeevna  could  not  have  done  with 
kissing  those  poor,  pale,  helpless  hands — and  si- 
lent tears  streamed  from  her  eyes  and  from  Liza's 
eyes;  and  the  cat  JNIatros  purred  in  the  wide  arm- 
chair beside  the  ball  of  yarn  and  the  stocking, 
the  elongated  flame  of  the  shrine-lamp  quivered 
gently  and  flickered  in  front  of  the  holy  picture, 
— in  the  adjoining  room,  behind  the  door,  stood 
Nastasj'^a  Karpovna,  and  also  stealthily  wiped 
her  eyes,  with  a  checked  handkerchief  rolled  up 
into  a  ball. 


248 


XL 

And,  in  the  meaiitiiiu',  <lo\vn-st;iirs  in  lln-  draw- 
ing-room preference  was  in  progress;  Marva 
Dmitrievnu  won,  and  was  in  liiuli  sj)irits.  A 
footman  entered,  and  announced  tlie  arrival  of 
Panshin. 

jNIarya  Dmftrievna  dropped  lier  cards,  and 
fidgeted  about  in  lier  chair:  \'ar\ara  IMvlovna 
looked  at  lier  with  a  half-smile,  tiien  directed  her 
gaze  to  the  door.  Panshin  made  his  appearance, 
in  a  black  frock-coat,  with  a  tall  English  collar, 
buttoned  up  to  the  throat.  "  It  was  i)ainrnl  loi- 
me  to  obey,  but  you  see  I  ha\e  come."  That  was 
what  his  freshlv-shaved,  unsmilin«>'  i'ace  ex- 
pressed. 

"Goodness,  J/ ''o/r/c///*'//*."— exclaimed  M.iiya 
Dmitrievna: — "  von  always  used  to  enter  without 
being  announced !  " 

Panshin  replied  to  Marya  Dmi'trit\  na  nurrly 
with  a  look,  bowed  courteously  to  her.  In  it  did 
not  kiss  her  hand.  She  introduced  iiiin  to  \'ai- 
vara  Pavlovna;  he  retreated  a  j)ace,  bowed  to 
her  with  equal  courtesy,  but  with  a  shade  ol'  ele- 
gance and  deference,  and  seated  liiinself  at  the 
card-table.  The  game  of  |)reference  soon  came 
to  an  end.     Panshin  iminii'ed  alter  liizaveta  Mi- 

241) 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  XEST 

kliai'lcnna,  learned  tliat  she  did  not  feel  quite  well, 
and  ex))ressed  his  regrets;  then  he  entered  into 
conversation  with  Varvara  Pavlovna,  weighing 
and  chiselling  clearly  every  word,  in  diplomatic 
fashion,  respectfully  listening  to  her  replies  to  the 
very  end.  Eut  the  importance  of  his  diplomatic 
tone  had  no  effect  on  Varvara  Pavlovna,  did  not 
communicate  itself  to  her.  Quite  the  contrary: 
she  ga'/ed  into  his  face  with  merry  attention, 
talked  in  a  free-and-easy  way,  and  her  delicate 
nostrils  quivered  slightly,  as  though  with  sup- 
pressed laughter.  jNIarya  Dmitrievna  hegan  to 
extol  her  talent;  Panshin  inclined  his  head  as 
[)olitely  as  his  collar  permitted,  declared  that  "  he 
was  convinced  of  it  in  advance," — and  turned 
the  conversation  almost  on  iNIetternich  himself. 
Varvara  Pavlovna  narrowed  her  velvety  eyes, 
and  saying,  in  a  low  tone:  "  Whj^  you  also  are  an 
artist  yourself,  uti  confrere"- — added  in  a  still 
lower  tone:  "  Venez!" — and  nodded  her  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  piano.  That  one  carelessly 
dropped  word :  "  Venez!  " — instantaneously,  as 
though  by  magic,  altered  Panshin's  entire  aspect. 
His  careworn  mien  vanished;  he  smiled,  became 
animated,  unlnittoned  his  coat,  and  repeating: 
"  What  sort  of  an  artist  am  I,  alas!  But  you,  I 
hear,  are  a  genuine  artist  "—wended  his  way,  in 
company  with  Varvara  Pavlovna,  to  the  piano. 
"Make  him  sing  his  romance: — 'When  the 
moon  floats,'  " — exclaimed  INIarya  Dmitrievna. 

2.)0 


A    XOHMvMAXS    XKST 

"  Do  you  siiigT"     said   N'iirvjira  IMvlovua.  il 

luminatinu-  liini    witli   a    hrioht,   swift    ^rlaiicf. 

"  Sit  down." 

Piinsliin  began  to  dcclim  . 

"  Sit  down," — slic  ivj)calc(l,  iiisislcnf  1\  laji- 
ping  the  back  of  the  chaii'. 

He  sat  down,  eoiiglu-d.  |)ullt(l  (i|)< n  his  coll.n-, 
and  sang  his  ronianee. 

"Channant!  " — said       \'ar\ai-a       l*a\l«i\iia: 
"  you  sing  beautifully,  x'ok.s  arc:::  du  .st//lf,     \ing 
it  again." 

She  walked  round  the  ])iano,  and  look  ii|)  Ik  r 
stand  directly  opposite  IMnshin.  lie  sang  his 
romance  again,  imparting  a  melodramatic  (|iii\(r 
to  his  voice.  Varvara  l^avlo\-na  gazi-d  intently 
at  him,  with  her  elbows  i)ro])ped  on  the  piano, 
and  her  white  hands  on  a  IcncI  with  In  r  lij)s. 
Panshin  finished. 

"Charmant,  cJiarmantc  idee," — said  she.  with 
the  calm  confidence  of  an  exj)erl.  "  Tell  iim  . 
have  vou  written  anvthing  for  the  female  voice, 
for  a  mezzo-soprano?  " 

"  I  hardly  write  anything," — re|)lied  Panshin: 
— "  you  see,  I  only  do  this  sort  of  thing  in  the  in- 
tervals betw^een  business  ali'aiis  ....  but  do 
you  sing?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh!  do  sing  something  for  us," — said  Marya 
Dmftrievna. 

Varvara  Pavlovna  pu.shed  back  Ik  i-  hair  from 

2.51 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

her  flushed  cheeks  A\'ith  her  hand,  and  shook  her 
head. 

"  Our  voices  ought  to  go  well  together," — she 
said,  turning  to  Panshin : — "  let  us  sing  a  duet. 
Do  you  know  '  Son  geloso,'  or  '  La  ci  darem,'  or 
'  Mira  la  bianca  luna  '  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  sing  '  Mira  la  bianca  luna,'  "—re- 
plied Panshin : — "  but  I  have  forgotten  it  long 
ago." 

"  Xever  mind,  we  will  try  it  over  in  an  under- 
tone.   Let  me  come." 

Varvara  Pavlovna  sat  down  at  the  piano.  Pan- 
shin stood  beside  her.  They  sang  the  duet  in  an 
undertone,  Varvara  Pavlovna  correcting  him  sev- 
eral times ;  then  they  sang  it  aloud,  then  they  re- 
peated it  twice :  "  jNIira  la  bianca  lu  .  .  .  u  .  .  .  una." 
Varvara  Pavlovna's  voice  had  lost  its  freshness, 
but  she  managed  it  very  adroitly.  Panshin  was 
timid  at  first,  and  sang  rather  out  of  tune,  but 
later  on  he  warmed  up,  and  if  he  did  not  sing 
faultlessly,  at  least  he  wriggled  his  shoulders, 
swayed  his  whole  body,  and  elevated  his  hand 
now  and  then,  like  a  genuine  singer,  ^^arvara 
Pavlovna  played  two  or  three  little  things  of 
Thal])erg's,  and  coquettishly  "  recited  "  a  French 
ariette.  ^larya  Dmitrievna  no  longer  knew  how 
to  express  her  deliglit;  several  times  she  was  on 
the  point  of  sending  for  Liza;  Gedeonovsky,  also, 
found  no  words  and  merely  rocked  liis  head, — but 
all  of  a  sudden  he.  yawned,  and  barely  succeeded 

252 


IIS 


A    XOHIJvMANS    .\  KST 

ill  concealing  liis  moutli  with  liis  IkhmI.  'ii 
yawn  did  not  escape  Vanaia  Pavlov  mm  .  sIk  sud- 
denly turned  her  hack  lo  tlic  piano,  said :  "J.s.h-z 
de  musiquc,  conunc  ya;  id  us  eliat."'  and  folded 
her  hands.  "Oiii,  as.sc:  dc  >nnsi(/nc."  inirrily 
repeated  Panshin-and  sti-uck  ii|)  a  coiiNcrsation 
with  her, — daring,  light,  in  tin-  Freiidi  language. 
"Exactly  as  in  the  hcsl  Parisian  salon/' 
thought  Marya  Dinitrievna,  as  slu-  listened  to 
their  evasive  and  ninil)le  speeches.  Pansliin  IVlt 
perfectly  contented;  his  eyes  sj)arkled,  he  smiled: 
at  first,  he  passed  liis  hand  ()\(i-  liis  face,  con- 
tracted his  brows,  and  sighed  spasmodically  w  lien 
he  chanced  to  meet  the  glances  of  ^Nhirya  Dini- 
trievna; but  later  on,  he  entirely  forgot  her.  and 
surrendered  himself  conii)letelv  to  the  eniovment 
of  the  half-fashionahle,  half-artistic  chatter. 
Yarvara  Pavlovna  showed  herself  to  he  a  great 
philosopher:  she  had  an  answer  ready  for  every- 
thing, she  did  not  hesitate  over  anything,  she 
doubted  nothing;  it  could  be  seen  that  she  had 
talked  much  and  often  with  clever  ])ersons  of 
various  sorts.  All  her  thoughts,  all  her  feelings, 
ch'cled  about  Paris.  Panshin  turned  the  eotiMi-- 
sation  on  literature:  it  appeared  that  she.  as  well 
as  he,  read  only  French  books:  (ieorges  .Sand 
excited  her  indignation:  lialzac  she  admired,  al- 
though he  fatigued  her:  In  Sue  and  .Seribi-  she 
discerned  great  exjjerts  of  the  heart:  she  adored 
Dumas   and    Feval;    in    her   soul    she    [)referred 

2,53 


A  XOBLEMxVN'S  NEST 

Paul  (le  Kock  to  the  whole  of  them,  but,  of 
course,  she  did  not  even  mention  his  name.  To 
tell  tlie  truth,  literature  did  not  interest  her 
greatly.  A^arvara  Pavlovna  very  artfully  avoided 
evervthino-  wliich  could  even  distantlv  recall  her 
position;  there  was  not  a  hint  about  love  in  her 
remarks:  on  tlie  contrary,  they  were  rather  dis- 
tinguislied  by  severity  toward  the  impulses  of 
passion,  by  disenchantment,  by  meekness.  Pan- 
shin  retorted;  she  disagreed  with  him  ....  but, 
stransie  to  sav! — at  the  very  time  when  words  of 
condemnation,  often  harsh,  were  issuing  from  her 
lips,  the  sound  of  those  words  caressed  and  ener- 
vated, and  her  eyes  said precisely  what 

those  lovely  eyes  said,  it  Avould  be  difficult  to 
state;  but  their  speech  was  not  severe,  not  clear, 
yet  sweet.  Panshin  endeavoured  to  understand 
their  mysterious  significance,  endeavoured  to  talk 
with  his  own  eyes,  but  he  was  conscious  that  he 
was  not  at  all  successful;  he  recognised  the  fact 
that  Varvara  Pavlovna,  in  her  quality  of  a  genu- 
ine foreign  lioness,  stood  above  him,  and  there- 
fore he  was  not  in  full  control  of  himself.  Var- 
vara  Pavlovna  had  a  habit,  while  talking,  of 
lightly  touching  the  sleeve  of  her  interlocutor; 
these  momentar}^  touches  greatly  agitated  Vla- 
dimir Nikolaitch.  Varvara  Pavlovna  possessed 
the  art  of  getting  on  easily  with  every  one;  two 
hours  had  not  elapsed  before  it  seemed  to  Pan- 
shin  that  he  had  known  her  always,  and  Liza, 

254 


A  NOBLE^rAX'S  NEST 

that  same  Liza,  wIkmti  he  loved,  iR-vcrtheliss.  to 
whom  he  had  offered  liis  liaiid  on  fhc  pnccdiii^r 
day, — vanished  as  in  a  mist.  Tea  was  sei-ved  :  the 
eonversation  heeame  still  more  unconstrained. 
JNlarya  Dniitrievna  riiwjj;  for  licr  pa^e,  and  or- 
dered him  to  tell  Li/,a  to  come  (low  n-stairs  if  li<  r 
head  felt  better.  Panshin,  on  hearing-  Liza's 
name,  set  to  talking  about  self-saeritiee,  about 
who  was  the  more  capable  of  sacrifice  —man  or 
woman?  INIarya  Dmftrievna  immediately  be- 
came agitated,  began  to  assert  that  woman  is 
the  more  capable,  declared  that  she  would  prove 
it  in  two  words,  got  entangled,  and  wound  u|» 
by  a  decidedly  infelicitous  comparison.  \^n\ara 
Pavlovna  picked  np  a  music-book,  half-concealed 
herself  with  it,  and  leaning  over  in  the  direction 
of  Panshin,  nibbling  at  a  biscuit,  with  a  ealiu 
smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  glance,  she  remarked, 
in  an  undertone:  "FJllc  n'a  pas  inventc  hi  poudrc. 
la  bonne  dame"  Panshin  was  somewhat  alarmed 
and  amazed  at  Varvara  Pavlovna's  audacity;  but 
he  did  not  understand  how  much  scorn  for  liini, 
himself,  was  concealed  in  that  unexpected  sally. 
and,  forgetting  the  affection  and  the  devotion  of 
Marya  Dmitrievna,  forgetting  the  dinners  where- 
with she  had  fed  him,  the  money  which  she  had 
lent  him, — he,  with  the  same  little  smile,  the  .same 
tone,  replied  (unlucky  wight!)  :  '\le  crois  hien." 
— and  not  even:  "Je  crois  hirn,"  but: — "Je  crois 
ben! " 

•2.55 


A  XOBLE.AIAN  S  XEST 

Varvara  Pavlovna  cast  a  friendly  glance  at 
him,  and  rose.  Liza  had  entered;  in  vain  had 
^liirfa  Timofeevna  sought  to  hold  her  back:  she 
liad  made  up  her  mind  to  endure  the  trial  to  the 
end.  Varvara  Pavlovna  advanced  to  meet  her, 
in  company  with  Panshin,  on  whose  face  the  for- 
mer diplomatic  exj^ression  had  again  made  its 
appearance. 

"  How  is  your  health?  " — he  asked  Liza. 

"  I  feel  better  now,  thank  you," — she  replied. 

"  We  have  been  having  a  little  music  here ;  it  is 
a  pity  that  you  did  not  hear  Varvara  Pavlovna. 
She  sings  superbly,  uu  artiste  consommee." 

"  Come  here,  ma  clierie," — rang  out  Marya 
Dmitrievna's  voice. 

Varvara  Pavlovna  instantly,  with  the  submis- 
siveness  of  a  little  child,  went  up  to  her,  and 
seated  herself  on  a  small  tabouret  at  her  feet. 
^Nlarya  Dmitrievna  had  called  her  for  the  pur- 
pose of  leaving  her  daughter  alone  with  Panshin, 
if  only  for  a  moment :  she  still  secretly  cherished 
the  hope  that  the  girl  would  come  to  her  senses. 
Moreover,  a  thought  had  occurred  to  her,  to 
which  she  desired  to  give  immediate  expression. 

"  Do  you  know," — she  whispered  to  Varvara 
Pavlovna: — "  I  want  to  make  an  effort  to  re- 
concile vou  with  yom*  husband :  I  do  not  guarantee 
success,  but  I  will  try.  You  know  that  he  has 
great  respect  for  me." 

Varvara  Pa^'lovna  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to 

256 


A  NOBLEMAxN  S   NKST 

INIdrya     Dmitricvna,     and     clasi)!.!!     licr     li.inds 
prettily. 

"You  would  be  my  saviour,  nui  hinli,"—  ahv 
said,  in  a  mournful  voice: — "  1  do  not  know  how 
to  thank  vou  for  all  vour  affection;  hut  1  am  loo 
guilty  toward  Feodor  Ivjinlteh;  he  cannot  foi- 
give  me." 

"  But  is  it  possible  that  you  ....  really " 

began  Marya  Dnn'trievna,  with  curiosity. 

"  Do  not  ask  me," — Varviira  I'aviovna  inter- 
rupted her,  and  dropped  her  eyes. — "  I  ^vas 
young,  giddy.  .  .  .  However,  I  do  not  wisli  to 
defend  myself." 

"  Well,  nevertheless,  why  not  make  the  effort  ? 
Do  not  despair," — returned  Marya  l)Fniti"ievna, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  patting  her  on  the  shoul- 
der, but  glanced  at  her  face — and  grew  timid. 
"  She  is  a  modest,  modest  creature," — she 
thought, — "and  exactly  like  a  young  girl  still." 

"  Are  you  ill?  " — Panshin  was  saying,  mean- 
while, to  I^iza. 

"  Yes,  I  am  not  very  well." 

"  I  understand  you," — he  said,  after  a  rather 
prolonged  silence. — "  Yes,  I  under.stand  you." 

"How  so?" 

"  I  understand  you," — significantly  i(.j)cated 
Panshin,  who  simply  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

Liza  became  con.fused,  and  tlien  .said  to  her- 
self: "  So  be  it!  "  Panshin  a.ssumed  a  my.sterious 
air,  and  fell  silent,  gazing  severely  to  one  side. 

2.57 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

"  But  tlie  clock  lias  struck  eleven,  I  think," — 
remarked  ]Marya  Dmitrievna. 

The  guests  understood  the  hint,  and  began  to 
take  their  leave.  Varvara  Pavlovna  was  made  to 
promise  that  she  would  come  to  dinner  on  the 
morrow,  and  bring  ^Vda;  Gedeonovsky,  who  had 
almost  fallen  asleep  as  he  sat  in  one  corner,  of- 
fered to  escort  her  home.  Panshin  solemnly  sa- 
luted every  one,  and  at  the  steps,  as  he  put  Var- 
vara Pjivlovna  into  her  carriage,  he  ^^ressed  her 
hand  and  shouted  after  her:  ''Au  revoir!"  Gedeo- 
novsky seated  himself  by  her  side;  all  the  way 
home,  she  amused  herself  by  placing  the  tip  of 
her  foot  on  his  foot,  as  though  by  accident;  he 
became  confused,  and  paid  her  compliments;  she 
giggled  and  made  eyes  at  him  when  the  light 
from  a  street-lantern  fell  on  the  carriage.  The 
^valtz  which  she  had  herself  played,  rang  in  her 
head,  and  excited  her;  wherever  she  happened  to 
find  herself,  all  she  had  to  do  was  to  imagine  to 
herself  lights,  a  ball-room,  the  swift  whirling  to 
the  sounds  of  music — and  her  soul  went  fairly 
aflame,  her  eyes  darkened  strangely,  a  smile  hov- 
ered over  her  lips,  something  gracefully-bacchic 
was  disseminated  all  over  her  body.  On  arriving 
at  home,  Varvara  Pavlovna  sprang  lightly  from 
the  carriage, — only  fashionable  lionesses  know 
how  to  spring  out  in  that  way, — turned  to  Ge- 
deonovsky, and  suddenly  Imrst  into  a  ringing 
laugh,  straight  in  his  face. 

258 


A  XOBT.E>rAX  S   XKST 

"A  charming  jkmvsoji,"  Uiou^^lit  tlic  Sl.tl* 
Councillor,  as  he  wended  liis  way  lioinew.ird  to  his 
lodgings,  w^herc  his  servant  was  awaiting  him 
with  a  bottle  of  eau  de  Cologne:  "  it  is  \v(ll  tliat 
I  am  a  staid  man  ....  only,  wlial  was  she 
laughing  at?  " 

Marfa  Timofeevna  sat  all  night  long  hy  Liza's 
pillow. 


259 


XLI 

Lavretzky  spent  a  day  and  a  half  at  Vasiliev- 
skoe,  and  during  nearly  the  whole  of  that  time 
he  wandered  about  the  neighbourhood.  He  could 
not  remain  long  in  one  place:  anguish  gnawed 
him;  he  experienced  all  the  torture  of  incessant, 
impetuous,  and  impotent  impulses.  He  recalled 
the  feeling  M'hich  had  taken  possession  of  his 
soul  on  the  daj^  following  his  arrival  in  the  coun- 
try; he  recalled  his  intentions  at  that  time,  and 
waxed  very  angry  with  himself.  What  could 
have  torn  him  away  from  that  which  he  recog- 
nised as  his  duty,  the  sole  task  of  his  future  ?  The 
thirst  for  happiness — once  more,  the  thirst  for 
happiness! — "  Obviously,  ^Nlikhalevitch  is  right," 
he  thought.  "  Thou  hast  wished  once  more  to 
taste  of  happiness  in  life," — he  said  to  himself, — 
"  thou  hast  forgotten  what  a  luxury,  what  an 
umiierited  mercy  it  is  when  it  has  visited  a  man 
even  once.  It  was  not  complete,  thou  wilt  say? 
But  put  forth  thy  claims  to  complete,  genuine 
happiness !  Look  about  thee :  who  of  those  around 
thee  is  blissful,  who  enjoys  himself?  Yonder, 
a  peasant  is  driving  to  the  reaping;  2:)erchance, 
he  is  satisfied  with  his  lot.  .  .  .  What  of  that? 
Wouldst  thou  change  with  him?  Remember 
thy  mother:  how  insignificantly  small  were  her 

260 


A  XOHI.KMAN  S   XKST 

demands,  and  what  lot  (Vll  to  Ikt  sliaic'  Tlinu 
hast,  evidently,  only  heen  hianni,,^  hcloic-  Tan- 
shin,  wlien  thou  saidst  to  him,  that  thou  hadst 
come  to  Russia  in  oi-dc-r  to  till  liic  cMrlii;  iiioii 
hast  come  in  order  to  run  altir  liu-  niijs  in  thiiii- 
old  age.  The  news  of  thy  Irtrdoni  caiiir,  and 
thou  didst  discard  everything,  thou  didst  lor^'tt 
everything,  thou  didst  run  hkc  a  little  hoy  aflir 
a  butterfly."  ....  Liza's  iniagv  luiintirruptcdly 
presented  itself  before  his  thougiits:  with  an  ef- 
fort he  drove  it  away,  as  he  did  also  anotiur 
importunate  image,  other  iniperturhahly-crafty, 
beautiful,  and  detested  features.  Old  Antiai  no- 
ticed that  his  master  was  not  himself:  after  heav- 
ing several  sighs  outside  the  door,  and  several 
more  on  the  threshold,  he  made  uj)  his  mind  to 
approach  him,  and  advised  him  to  diink  some- 
thing warm.  Lavretzky  shouted  at  him,  oideied 
him  to  leave  the  room,  but  afterward  begged  his 
pardon;  but  this  caused  Anton  to  grow  still  more 
disconsolate.  Lavretzky  could  not  sit  in  the 
drawing-room;  he  felt  as  though  his  great-grand- 
father Andrei  were  gazing  scornfully  from  the 
canvas  at  his  puny  descendant. — "  Kkh,  look  out 
for  thyself!  thou  art  sailing  in  shoal  water!  "  his 
lips,  pursed  up  on  one  side,  seemed  to  he  saying. 
"  Can  it  be,"— he  thought,—"  that  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  conquer  myself, — tliat  I  shall  give  in  to 
this- — nonsense?"  (The  severely-wounded  in  war 
ahvavs  call  their  wounds  "  non.sense."     1 1  a  man 

261 


A  NOBLKMAX'S  NEST 

could  not  deceive  liiinself, — he  could  not  live  on 
the  earth.)  "Am  I  realh^  a  niiserahle  little  boy? 
Well,  yes:  1  have  beheld  close  by,  I  have  almost 
held  in  my  hand,  the  possibility  of  happiness  for 
mv  whole  life— it  has  suddenly  vanished;  and  in 
a  lottery,  if  you  turn  the  wheel  just  a  little  fur- 
ther, a  poor  man  might  become  a  rich  one.  If  it 
was  not  to  be,  it  was  not  to  be, — and  that 's  the 
end  of  the  matter.  I  '11  set  to  work,  with  clenched 
teeth,  and  I  will  command  mvself  to  hold  mv 
tongue ;  luckily,  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  had 
to  take  myself  in  hand.  And  why  did  I  run 
away,  why  am  I  sitting  here,  with  my  head 
thrust  into  a  bush,  like  an  ostrich?  To  be  afraid 
to  look  catastrophe  in  the  face — is  nonsense! — 
Anton!" — he  called  loudly, — ^"  order  the  taran- 
tas  to  be  harnessed  up  immediately.  Yes," — 
he  meditated  once  more, — "  I  must  command 
myself  to  hold  my  tongue,  I  must  keep  a  tight 
rein  on  myself."  .... 

V^'\\\\  such  arouments  did  Lavretzky  strive  to 
alleviate  his  grief ;  but  it  was  great  and  powerful ; 
and  even  Apraxyeya,  who  had  outlived  not  so 
much  her  mind  as  every  feeling,  even  Apraxyeya 
shook  her  head,  and  sorrowfully  followed  him 
with  her  eyes,  when  he  seated  himself  in  the 
tarantas,  in  order  to  drive  to  the  town.  The 
horses  galloped  off;  he  sat  motionless  and  up- 
right, and  stared  impassively  ahead  along  the 
road. 

262 


XLII 

Liza  had  written  to  Lavretzky  on  llu-  day  ht- 
fore,  that  he  was  to  come  to  theii-  Ikhisj  in  llic 
evening;  but  lie  first  went  n[)  to  liis  ow  n  (|narter.s. 
He  did  not  find  either  liis  wife  or  his  daughter  at 
home;  from  the  servants  he  karned  tiiat  she  liad 
gone  with  her  to  the  Kah'tins'.  Tliis  n(\\.s  Iiotli 
startled  and  enraged  him.  "  Kvidently,  N'arvara 
Pavlovna  is  determined  not  to  give  me  a  ehanec  to 
hve," — he  thought,  with  the  excitement  of  wratli 
in  his  heart.  He  began  to  stride  to  and  fro. 
incessantly  thrusting  aside  with  liis  iVcl  and 
hands  the  child's  toys,  the  books,  and  Hit.-  IVini- 
nine  appurtenances  which  came  in  liis  way;  In- 
summoned  Justine,  and  ordered  Ir  r  lo  remove  all 
that  "rubbish." — ■"  Qui,  in  o  n. si  c  ii  r, "  sn'ul  she. 
with  a  grimace,  and  began  to  put  the  room  in 
order,  gracefully  bending,  and  gi^  ing  La\  rt't/ky 
to  understand,  bv  everv  movement,  thai  shi'  re- 
garded  him  as  an  unlicked  bear.  With  haired  lu 
watched  her  worn  but  still  "  piciuanl."  sneering. 
Parisian  face,  her  white  cuffs,  her  silken  apion. 
and  light  cap.  He  sent  lier  away,  at  last,  and 
after  long  wavering  (Varvara  P;i\lo\na  still  did 
not  return)  he  made  up  his  mind  to  hitake  him- 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

self  to  the  Kalitins', — not  to  Marya  13mitrievna 
—  (not,  on  any  account,  would  he  have  entered 
her  drawing-room,  that  drawing-room  where  his 
wife  was ) ,  but  to  JNIarf a  Timof eevna ;  he  remem- 
bered that  a  rear  staircase  from  the  maids'  en- 
trance led  straight  to  her  rooms.  This  is  w^hat 
Lavretzky  did.  Chance  favoured  him:  in  the 
yard  he  met  Schurotchka;  she  conducted  him  to 
IMarfa  Timofeevna.  He  found  her,  contrary  to 
her  wont,  alone;  she  was  sitting  in  a  corner,  with 
hair  uncovered, bowed  over,  with  her  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap.  On  perceiving  Lavretzky,  the  old 
W'Oman  was  greatly  alarmed,  rose  briskly  to  her 
feet,  and  began  to  walk  hither  and  yon  in  the 
room,  as  though  in  search  of  her  cap. 

"  Ah,  here  thou  art,  here  thou  art," — she  began, 
avoiding  his  gaze,  and  bustling  about — "  well, 
how  do  vou  do?  Come,  what  now?  What  is  to 
be  done?  Where  wert  thou  yesterday?  Well,  she 

has  come, — w^ell,  yes.    Well,  we  must  just 

somehow  or  other." 

Lavretzky  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  Come,  sit  down,  sit  down," — went  on  the  old 
w^oman. — "  Thou  hast  come  straight  up-stairs. 
Well,  yes,  of  coiu'se.  What?  thou  art  come  to 
look  at  me?    Thanks." 

The  old  woman  was  silent  for  a  while ;  I^avret- 
zky  did  not  know  what  to  saj''  to  her ;  but  she  un- 
derstood him. 

"  Liza  ....  yes,  Liza  was  here  just  now," — 

264 


A  XOBLEMAX  S    XKST 

went  on  Mtiri'a  TinKjlecM!  :,  iylw^  .iihI  imtvin^r 
the  cords  of  her  retieiile.  "  She  is  iiol  <|uilc  well. 
Sehiirotehka,  where  art  lliou^  Come  liitlur,  my 
mother,  why  canst  thou  iiol  sit  stillf  And  I  have 
a  headache.  It  must  he  from  I  hat  from  tlie  sin^r. 
mg  and  from  the  music." 

"  From  what  sin^in«^\  aunty?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,  tliey  keep  si?iniM(r  wliat 
do  you  call  it? — duets.  And  always  in  Italian: 
tchi-tchi,  and  tcha-tchu,  regular  mag|)i(  s.  Tlicv 
begin  to  drag  the  notes  out,  and  it  \s  just  like  tug- 
ging at  your  soul,  l^ansliin  and  that  wifV  of 
yours.  And  all  that  lias  come  about  so  (juiekly; 
already  thev  are  on  the  footing  of  relatives,  thev 
do  not  stand  on  ceremony.  However,  I  will  say 
this  mnch:  even  a  dog  seeks  a  refuge:  no  harm 
will  come  to  her,  so  long  as  peo])k'  dorTt  turn  her 
out." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  must  confess  tliat  I  did  not 
exjject  this," — replied  J^avrctzky: — "it  must 
have  required  great  boldness." 

"  No,  my  dear  soul,  that  is  not  l)ol(lness:  it  is 
calculation.  The  I^ord  l)e  with  Ik  r  I  want 
nothing  to  do  with  her!  They  tell  me  that  thou 
art  sending  her  to  Lavriki, — is  it  true?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  pkieing  tliat  estate  at  the  (lisjK)sal 
of  Varvara  Pavlovna." 

"  Has  she  asked  for  money?" 

"  Not  yet." 

"Well,    it    will    not    he-    long   helore   she   does. 

•2(5.5 


A  XOBT.EMAX'S  NEST 

But  I  have  only  just  taken  a  good  look  at  thee. 
Art  tliou  well  ?  " 
les. 

"  Seliurotchka,"^ — suddenly  cried  INIarfa  Timo- 
feevna: — "go,  and  tell  liizaveta  INIikhailovna — 
that  is  to  sa3%  no,  ask  her  .  .  .  she  's  down-stairs, 
is  n't  she?  " 

1  es,  ma  am. 

"  Well,  yes;  then  ask  her:  '  Where  did  she  put 
my  book?'     She  knows." 

"  I  obey,  ma'am." 

Again  the  old  woman  began  to  bustle  about, 
and  to  open  the  drawers  of  her  commode.  La- 
vretzky  sat  motionless  on  his  chair. 

Suddenly  light  footsteps  became  audible  on 
the  stairs — and  Liza  entered.  Lavretzky  rose 
to  his  feet,  and  bowed ;  Liza  halted  by  the  door. 

"  Liza,  Lizotchka," — said  INIarfa  Timofeevna 
hastily; — "where  is  my  book,  where  didst  thou 
put  my  book?  " 

"What  book,  aunty?" 

"  Why,  my  book;  good  heavens!  However,  I 
did  not  call  thee  ....  Well,  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence. What  are  you  doing  there — down-stairs? 
See  here,  Feodor  Ivanitch  has  come. — How  is 
thy  head?" 

"  It  is  all  right." 

"  Thou  art  always  saying:  '  It  is  all  right.' 
What 's  going  on  with  you  down-stairs, — music 
agam  f 

266 


A  NOBT.KMAX  S   XKST 

"  No — they  arc  pla\  iii«>-  cards." 

"Yes,  of  course,  she  is  uj)  lo  ex  (.lyUiin^r. 
Schiirotchka,  I  perceive  thai  Ihoii  \\  ishcst  tn 
have  a  run  in  the  "anlcii.     (io  alorm." 

"  Why,  no,  Marfa  TiMiolccMia ' 

"  Don't  argue,  if  you  please,  (iol  Xaslasyii 
Karpovna  lias  gone  into  the  garden  alone:  stay 
with  her.  Kespect  the  old  woman."  Schurolchka 
left  the  room. — "  Why,  where  is  my  cap^  Ideally, 
now,  where  has  it  got  to?  " 

"  Pray  let  me  look  for  it," — said  Liza. 

"Sit  down,  sit  down;  mv  own  le<»s  haven't 
given  out  yet.  1  mu.st  have  left  it  yonder,  in  my 
hedroom." 

And,  casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  Lavret/ky. 
Marfa  Timofeevna  left  the  room.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving  the  d(M)r  open,  hut  suddenly 
turned  round  toward  it,  and  shut  it. 

Liza  leaned  against  the  hack  of  her  chair,  and 
gently  lifted  her  hands  to  her  face:  Lavretzky 
remained  standing,  as  he  was. 

"  This  is  how  we  were  to  meet  again,"  Ik. 
said,  at  last. 

Liza  took  lier  hands  from  hei"  face. 

"  Yes," — she  said  dully: — "  we  were  prom])tly 
punished." 

"Punished?"— said  Lavretzky.  "  l?ut  what 
were  you  puni.shed  fnr?  " 

Liza  raised  her  eves  to  him.  Tliev  expressed 
neither  grief  nor  anxiety:  they   looked  smaller 

207 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

and  dimmer.  Her  face  was  pale;  her  slightly 
parted  lips  had  also  grown  pale. 

Lavretzky's  heart  shuddered  with  pity  and 
with  love. 

"  You  wrote  to  me :  '  All  is  at  an  end,'  " — he 
whispered: — "Yes,  all  is  at  an  end — before  it 
has  begun."  * 

"  We  must  forget  all  that," — said  Liza: — "  I 
am  glad  that  you  came ;  I  wanted  to  write  to  you, 
but  it  is  better  thus.  Only,  we  must  make  use, 
as  promptly  as  possible,  of  these  minutes.  It  re- 
mains for  both  of  us  to  do  our  duty.  You,  Feo- 
dor  Ivanitch,  ought  to  become  reconciled  to  your 
wife." 

"  Liza!  " 

"  I  implore  you  to  do  it;  in  that  way  alone 
can  we  expiate  .  .  .  everything  which  has  taken 
place.  Think  it  over — and  you  will  not  refuse 
me." 

"  Liza,  for  God's  sake, — you  are  demanding 
the  impossible.  I  am  ready  to  do  everything  you 
command ;  but  become  reconciled  to  her  now! .  .  . 
I  agree  to  everything,  I  have  forgotten  every- 
thing; but  I  cannot  force  my  heart  to 

Have  mercy,  this  is  cruel!  " 

*'  I  do  not  require  from  you  .  .  .  what  you 
think;  do  not  live  with  her,  if  you  cannot;  but 
become  reconciled," — replied  Liza,  and  again 
raised  her  hand  to  her  eyes. — "  Remember  your 
little  daughter;  do  this  for  me." 

268 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  XKST 

"Very  well,"— said  Lavretzkv,  tliiounl,  |,i.s 
teeth: — "  I  will  do  it;  let  ns  assunic  tliat  tlurchy 
I  am  fulfilling  my  duty.  Well,  and  yon  in 
what  does  your  duty  consist  ^  " 

"  I  know  what  it  is." 

Lavretzky  suddenly  started. 

"  Surely,  you  are  not  preparing  to  marry  Tan- 
shin?  " — he  asked. 

Liza  smiled  almost  imperee])tibly. 
Oh,  no!  " — she  said. 

Akh,     Liza,     Liza!" — cried     Lavretzky: — 
how  happy  we  might  have  been!  " 

Again  Liza  glanced  at  him. 

"  Now  yovi  see  yourself,  Feodor  Ivanitcli.  that 
happiness  does  not  depend  upon  us,  hut  upon 
God." 

"  Yes,  because  you  .  .  .  ." 

The  door  of  the  adjoining  room  ()1)(.ir<1 
swiftly,  and  jNIarfa  Timofeevna  entered,  witli  lici- 
cap  in  her  hand. 

"  I  have  found  it  at  last," — slif  said,  taking 
up  her  stand  between  Lavretzky  and  Liza. — "  T 
had  mislaid  it  myself.  That's  what  it  is  to  Ik- 
old,  alack!  However,  youth  is  no  better.  W'til. 
and  art  thou  going  to  T^avriki  thy  sell",  with  thy 
wife?" — she  added,  addressing  Feodor  Ixiinitcli. 

"With  her,  to  Lavriki^ — I  do  not  know," — 
he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  Thou  art  not  going  down-stairs?  " 

"  Not  to-dav." 

269 


A  xoble:man's  xest 

"Well,  very  ^ood,  as  it  pleases  thee;  but  I 
think  thou  shouldst  go  down-stairs,  Liza.  Akh, 
gracious  gCKxlness! — and  I  liave  forgotten  to  give 
the  bullfineli  liis  food.  Just  wait,  I  11  be  back 
directly " 

And  ]Marfa  Tiniofeevna  ran  ovit  of  the  room, 
witliout  putting  on  her  cap. 

Lavretzky  went  quickly  up  to  Liza. 

"Liza," — he  began  in  a  beseeching  voice: — 
"  we  are  parting  forever,  my  heart  is  breaking, — 
give  me  your  hand  in  farewell." 

Liza  raised  her  head.  Her  weary,  almost  ex- 
tinct gaze  rested  on  him.  .  . 

"  Xo," — she  said,  and  drew  back  the  hand 
which  she  had  already  put  forward — "  no.  La- 
vretzky "- —  (she  called  him  thus,  for  the  first 
time) — "  I  will  not  give  you  my  hand.  To  what 
end?  Go  away,  I  entreat  vou.  You  know  that  I 
love  you,' — she  added,  with  an  effort: — "  but  no 
.  .  .  no." 

And  she  raised  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

The  door  creaked.  .  .  The  handkerchief  slipped 
off  Liza's  knees.  Lavretzky  caught  it  before 
it  fell  to  the  floor,  hastily  thrust  it  into  his  side 
pocket,  and,  tiu-ning  round,  his  ej^es  met  those 
of  Marfa  Timofeevna. 

"  Lizotchka,  I  think  thy  mother  is  calling 
thee," — remarked  the  old  woman. 

Liza  immediately  rose,  and  left  the  room. 

270 


ii 


A  XOIJLK.MAX  S   XKST 

Miirl'a  'rimofc'CN  iia  sal  (Ijwh  a^aiii  in  lu  r  cor- 
ner.    Lavrctzky  l)C'^ai»  to  take  leave  ol'  lier. 
Fedya,"    -slie  suddenly  said. 
What,  aunty  (  " 
Art  thou  an  houourahlc  mini!'" 

"Whatr' 

"  I  ask  thee:  art  tlioii  nn  lioiiour.-iMc  man  !*  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  H'ni.  Hut  give  me  tliy  word  of  lionour  that 
thou  art  an  honoui'ahle  man." 

"Certainly.— But  why?" 

"  I  know  whv.  Yes,  and  thou  also,  ni\  heue- 
factor,  if  thou  wilt  think  it  over  well,  I'oi-  thou 
art  not  stupid,  -wilt  understand  thysell'  why  1 
ask  this  of  thee.  ^Vnd  now,  farewelK  my  deai'. 
Thanks  for  thy  visit;  and  remem])er  the  woid  that 
has  been  spoken,  Fedya,  and  kiss  me.  Okli,  my 
soul,  it  is  hard  for  thee,  I  know:  l)ut  then,  life  is 
not  easy  for  any  one.  Tiiat  is  \\h\  1  ustd  to 
envy  the  flies;  here,  1  thouglil.  is  something  tliat 
finds  hfe  good;  ])ut  once,  in  the  night,  1  heard  a 
fly  grieving  in  the  cla\vs  of  a  spider,  no.  I 
thought,  a  thundercloud  hangs  om  r  lluiii  also. 
What  is  to  be  done,  Fedya ^  but  rcnicmlur  thy 
word,  nevertheless. — Go."' 

Lavretzky  emerged  from  the  back  eiitianc-i', 
and  was  already  approaching  the  gate  .  .  .  when 
a  lackey  overtook  liini. 

"  Marva  Dmiti-ievna  ordei-cd  me  to  ask  >ou  to 

271 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

be  so  good  as  to  come  to  her," — he  annouiicecl  to 
Lavretzky. 

"  Say  to  her,  my  good  fellow,  that  I  cannot  at 
present  .  .  .'  began  Feodor  Ivanitch. 

"  She  ordered  me  to  entreat  you  urgently," — 
went  on  the  lackey: — "  she  ordered  me  to  say, 
that  she  is  at  home." 

"But  have  the  visitors  gone?" — asked  La- 
vretzky. 

"  Yes,  sir," — returned  the  lackey,  and  grinned. 

Lavretzky  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  fol= 
lowed  him. 


272 


Marya  D.MITKIKVNA  w  as  siUiii^'  alone,  in  her 
boudoir,  in  a  sofa-chair,  and  sniflinn  «an  dt- 
Cologne;  a  glass  ol'  orangc-llowci-  water  was 
standing  beside  her,  on  a  small  tahU .  Slie  was 
excited,  and  seemed  to  hv  t  inn  irons. 

Lavretzky  entered. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,"^ — lie  said,  saluting 
her  coldly. 

"  Yes," — returned  Marya  Dmitrievna,  an<l 
drank  a  little  of  the  water.  '"  I  lieaid  that  yon 
went  straight  up-stairs  to  aunty;  1  gave  orders 
that  you  should  be  reciue.sted  to  eome  to  me:  I 
must  have  a  talk  witli  yon.  Sit  down,  if  yon 
please." — JNIarya  Dmitrievna  took  breath.  - 
"You  know," — she  went  on: — "that  yoni-  wife 
has  arrived? " 

"  That  fact  is  known  to  me," — saitl  Lavret/ky. 

"  Well,  yes, — that  is,  1  meant  to  say,  she  eame 
to  me,  and  I  received  her:  that  is  what  I  wish  to 
have  an  explanation  about  with  yon  now.  Feo<l«)r 
Ivanitch.  I,  thank  (xod.  have  won  nniversal  re- 
spect, I  may  say,  and  I  wonld  not  do  anything 
improper  for  all  the  world.  Althongii  1  fore- 
saw that  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  yon,  still.  1 

'27  li 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  refuse  her,  Feodor 
Ivanitch;  she  is  my  relative — through  you:  put 
yourself  in  m}^  place — what  right  had  I  to  turn 
her  out  of  my  house  ? — You  agree  with  me  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  your  agitating  your- 
self, Marya  Dmitrievna," — returned  Lavretzky: 
"  you  have  hehaved  verj^  well  indeed;  I  am  not  in 
the  least  angry.  I  have  not  the  slightest  intention 
of  depriving  Varvara  Pavlovna  of  the  right  to 
see  her  acquaintances ;  I  only  refrained  from  en- 
tering j^our  apartments  to-day  because  I  wished 
to  avoid  meeting  her, — that  was  all." 

"  Akli,  how  delighted  I  am  to  hear  that  from 
you,  Feodor  Ivanitch," — exclaimed  JNIarya  Dmi- 
trievna:— "  however,  I  always  expected  this  from 
your  noble  sentiments.  But  that  I  should  feel 
agitated,  is  not  wonderf id :  I  am  a  woman  and  a 
mother.  And  3^our  wife  ....  of  course,  I  can- 
not judge  between  her  and  you — I  told  her  so 
myself;  but  she  is  such  an  amiable  lady,  that  she 
cannot  cause  anything  but  pleasure." 

Lavretzky  laughed,  and  played  with  his  hat. 

"  And  this  is  what  I  ^vished  to  say  to  you,  Feo- 
dor Ivanitch, "^ — went  on  ^Marva  Dmitrievna, 
moving  a  little  nearer  to  him: — "if  you  had 
onh^  seen  hov/  modestly,  liow  respectfully  she 
behaves! — Reallv,  it  is  touching.  But  if  vou  had 
heard  how  she  speaks  of  you!  '  I  am  wholly 
culpable  with  regard  to  Jiim,'  she  says;  'I  did 
not  know  how  to  appreciate  him,'  she  says;  '  he  is 

274 


A  NOHLKMAX  S   XKST 

an  angel,'  she  says,  '  not  a  man.'  'i'luly,  slic  did 
say  that,  '  an  an<4\l.'  She  is  so  pcniknt  .... 
I  never  beheld  such  penitence,  I  ^ivc  ynu  my 
word! " 

"  Well,  ^larya  Diiiilric\  iia,"  said  I  .a\  icl/ky  : 
— "permit  me  to  ask  \()n  a  (inistion :  I  am  told 
that  Varvara  Ptivlovna  has  htcn  sin;4in^  Tin- 
you;  did  she  sing  dnrin<^'  \\vv  rcixiitancc  or 
how? "  .  .  .  . 

"  Akh,  aren't  yon  ashamed  to  talk  hkc  tliati 
She  sang  and  played  merely  with  tlic  ohjeet  of 
giving  me  pleasure,  because  1  begged,  ahnost 
commanded  her  to  do  so.  1  perceive  that  she  is 
distressed — so  distressed,  I  wonder  liow  1  ca?i  (h- 
vert  her.  And  I  had  heard  that  slie  liad  sncli  a 
fine  talent. — Upon  my  word,  Fendoi-  Ivaiiitch, 
she  is  a  completely  crushed,  overwhelmed  woman 
—ask  Sergyei  Petrovitch  if  she  is  not,  fmil  ii 
fait, — what  have  you  to  say  to  that  (  " 

Lavretzky  simply  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"And  then,  wliat  a  little  angel  that  Ada  of 
your  is,  what  a  darling! — How  pretty  slie  is,  l»ow 
clever!  how  well  slie  talks  Freiieli;  and  she  un- 
derstands Russian— she  called  me  Iz/nicnha 
[aunty].  And  do  you  know,  as  foi-  l)eing  sliy, 
like  nearly  all  children  of  her  age,— there  is  no 
shyness  about  her.  She  is  awi'nlly  llki-  you, 
Feodor  I  van  itch.  Her  eyes,  her  brows  .  .  . 
well,  she's  you  all  over  again,  your  perfect 
image.     I  am  not  very  fond  of  such  small  ehil- 

275 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

dren,  I  must  confess;  but  I  have  simply  lost  my 
lieart  to  your  little  daughter." 

"  ]\Iarya  Dmitrievna," — exclaimed  Lavret- 
zky,  suddenly: — "  allow  me  to  ask  you  why  you 
are  pleased  to  say  all  this  to  me? " 

"Why?" — ag-ain  ^larva  Dmitrievna  sniffed 
at  her  eau  de  Cologne,  and  sipped  her  water: — 
"  I  say  it,  Feodor  Ivanitch,  because  ....  you 
see,  I  am  a  relative,  I  take  the  closest  interest 
in  you.  ...  I  know  that  you  have  the  very  kind- 
est of  hearts.  Hearken  to  me,  moii  cousin, — I 
am  a  woman  of  experience,  and  I  am  not  talking 
at  random:  forgive,  forgive  your  wife." — JNIarya 
Dmitrievna's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears. — 
"  Reflect:  youth,  inexperience  .  .  .  well,  perhaps, 
a  bad  example — she  luid  not  the  sort  of  a  mother 
who  might  have  put  her  on  the  right  road.  For- 
give her,  Feodor  Ivanitch;  she  has  been  suffi- 
ciently punished." 

Tears  trickled  down  Marya  Dmitrievna's 
cheeks ;  she  did  not  wipe  them  away :  she  loved  to 
weep.  Lavretzky  sat  as  on  hot  coals.  "  My 
God," — he  thought, — "  what  sort  of  tortm-e,  what 
sort  of  a  day  has  fallen  to  my  lot!  " 

"  You  do  not  answer," — began  ]Marya  Dmi- 
trievna again: — "what  am  I  to  understand  by 
that? — is  it  possible  that  you  can  be  so  cruel?  No, 
I  will  not  believe  that.  I  feel  that  my  words 
have  convinced  you.  Feodor  Ivanitch,  God 
will    reward    you    for   your    kindness    of   heart, 

276 


A  XOliLEMAN  S    X  KS  1' 

and  you  will  now  ivciixc  your  uilV  Imm  m\ 
hands.  ..." 

Lavretzky  involuiilaiiiy  rose  from  his  cliaii-; 
Marya  Dniitrieviia  also  rosr,  and  .sl<  jipin^^ 
briskly  behind  a  screen,  led  iorlli  N'arvara  l'a\- 
lovna.  Pale,  half'-faintino-,  wilh  eyes  east  down, 
she  seemed  to  have  renounced  every  tlioii^lit. 
every  impulse  oi*  lier  own — to  have  phiced  herself 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  ^Tarya   I)niitii(\ na. 

Lavretzky  retreated  a  pace. 

"  You  were  here?  " — he  exclaimed. 

"Do  not  blame  her," — said  Miirya  Dmitrievna. 
hastily; — "she  did  not  wisli  lo  remain  on  any 
account  whatever,  but  1  ordered  hei*  to  stay,  and 
placed  her  there  ])ehind  the  screen.  She  assured 
me  that  it  would  only  make  you  more  anfirv;  ))ul 
I  would  not  listen  to  her:  I  know  you  better  than 
she  does.  Receive  your  ^^•ife  from  iny  hands;  ^o, 
Varya,  be  not  afraid,  fall  at  your  husband's  I'eet  " 
(she  tugged  at  her  hand) — "  and  my  blessing  on 
you! 


Wait,  ^Nlcirya  Dnn'trievna,"  La\  let/.kv  in- 
terrupted  her,  in  a  (hill,  hut  (piixei-ing  xoice: 
"  you  are,  pro])ably,  fond  of  si'ntiniental  scenes." 
(Lavretzky  was  not  mistaken:  M;irya  Dmitri- 
evna had  retained  from  her  boarding-school  days 
a  passion  for  a  certain  theatricalness)  ;  "they 
amuse  you;  but  others  suffer  from  them.  How- 
ever, I  will  not  discuss  the  matter  with  you:  in 
tJiis  scene  you  are  not  the  i)rincipal  actor.     What 

277 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

do  you  want  of  mc,  madam?" — he  added,  ad- 
dressing his  wife.  "  Have  not  I  done  for  you 
all  that  1  could  (  Do  not  retort,  that  you  have  not 
pk)tted  this  meeting;  I  shall  not  believe  you, — 
and  you  know  that  I  cannot  believe  you.  ^Vhat, 
then,  do  you  want?  You  are  clever, — vou  never 
do  anything  without  an  object.  You  must  un- 
derstand that  I  am  not  capable  of  living  with 
you  as  I  used  to  live;  not  because  I  am  angry 
^^•ith  you,  but  because  I  have  become  a  different 
man.  1  told  vou  that  on  the  day  after  your  re- 
turn,  and  you  yourself,  at  that  moment,  acqui- 
esced with  me  in  your  own  soul.  But  you  wish  to 
reinstate  yourself  in  public  opinion;  it  is  not 
enough  for  you  to  live  in  my  house,  you  want  to 
live  under  one  roof  with  me, — is  not  that  the 
truth?" 

"  I  want  you  to  forgive  me," — said  Varvara 
Pavlovna,  without  raising  her  ej^es. 

"  She  wants  you  to  forgive  her," — repeated 
Marya  Dmitrievna. 

"  And  not  for  my  ow^n  sake,  but  for  Ada's," — 
whispered  Varvara  Pavlovna. 

"  Xot  for  her  sake,  but  for  Ada's," — repeated 
IVIarya  Dmitrievna. 

"Very  good.  You  wish  that?" — ejaculated 
Lavretzky,  with  an  eiFort.  "As  you  like,  I  agree 
to  that."  * 

Varvara  Pavlovna  cast  a  swift  glance  at 
him,  and  Marya  Dmitrievna  cried  out: — "  Well, 

278 


A  XOTJLKMAXS   NKST 

God   he   praised!"      and    a^aiii    tii^^cd    at    \  ar- 
vara    I'avloxiia's    hand.       "  Now     receive-     from 


me 


Wait,  1  tell  you,"  La\  rtlzky  inlernij)led 
her.  "  1  consent  to  live  with  you,  \'arvara  P.-iv- 
lovna," — he  continued:  ''That  is  t(»  say,  I  will 
take  von  to  La\  riUi.  and  I  will  live  with  vou  as 
long  as  my  strengtli  liolds  out,  and  tli<  n  I  shall  ^o 
away, — and  return  now  and  tlu  n.  ^'ou  sec  I  d(» 
not  wish  to  deceive  vou;  hut  do  not  demand  anv- 
thing  more.  Vou  yourself  would  smile,  were  1 
to  comi)ly  with  the  desire  of  your  respected  rela- 
tive, and  press  you  to  my  heart,  and  assure  you 
that  ....  there  had  heen  no  past,  that  the  I'elled 
tree  could  hurst  into  hlossom  once  more.  Hut  I 
perceive  that  I  must  suhmit.  ^'on  will  not  un- 
derstand that  word;  ....  it  matters  not.  I  re- 
peat, I  will  live  with  yon  ....  or,  no,  I  cannot 
promise  that  ...  I  will  join  you,  1  w  ill  regard 
you  again  as  my  wife 

"  But  give  her  yovn*  hand  on  that,  at  least," 
said  ^Nlarya  Dmitrievna,  who.se  tears  were  long 
since  dried  uj). 

"Up  to  the  ])re.sent  moment,  1  ha\(  not  de- 
ceived Varvara  Pavlovfia," — returned  Lavret- 
zky; — "  she  will  helievc  nic  as  it  is.  I  w  ill  take 
her  to  Lavriki;  and  recollect,  \'arvara  Tiiv- 
lovna:  our  compact  will  he  regarded  as  hrokeii 
just  as  soon  as  you  leave  that  i)lace.  And  now. 
permit  me  to  withdraw." 

270 


A  XOBLKxMAN  S  NEST 

He  bowed  lo  both  ladies,  and  hastily  quitted 
the  room. 

"You  are  not  taking  her  with  you," — called 
jMarya  Dnn'trievna  after  him.  ..."  Let  him 
alone," — Varvara  Pavlovna  whispered  to  her, 
and  immediately  thi-ew  her  arms  round  her,  be- 
gan to  utter  thanks,  to  kiss  her  hands,  and  to  call 
her  her  saviour. 

IVIarya  Dnn'trievna  accepted  her  caresses  with 
condescension ;  but  in  her  secret  soul  she  was 
pleased  neither  with  Lavretzky  nor  with  Varvara 
Pavlovna,  nor  with  the  whole  scene  which  she 
had  planned.  There  had  turned  out  to  be  verj'- 
little  sentimentality;  Varvara  Pavlovna,  in  her 
opinion,  should  have  flung  herself  at  her  hus- 
band's feet. 

"  How  was  it  that  you  did  not  understand 
me?  " — she  commented: — "  why,  I  told  you: '  fall 
at  his  feet.'  " 

"It  was  better  thus,  dear  aunty;  do  not  dis- 
turb yourself — everything  is  all  right,"^ — insisted 
Varvara  Pavlovna. 

"  Well,  and  he  is  as  cold  as  ice," — remarked 
Marya  Dnn'trievna.  "  Even  if  you  did  not  weep, 
why,  I  fairly  overflowed  before  him.  He  means 
to  shut  you  up  in  Lavri'ki.  The  idea, — and  you 
cannot  even  come  to  see  me!  All  men  are  un- 
feeling,"— she  said,  in  conclusion,  and  shook  her 
head  significantly. 

"  On   the   other   hand,   women   know   how   to 

280 


A   XOIU.K.MAX  S    XKSr 

value  kindness  and  nia;^iianimil\ .  '  said  \'ar- 
vara  Pavlovna,  and  scil'tly  dr()i)|)in^  on  Ik  r  knees 
before  Mai'va  Dnii'tricvna,  slu  iDiltraci d  tlu  lat- 
ter's  corpuk'iit  form  with  Ik  r  aiiiis.  aiwl  |)ressr<l 
her  face  a<^ainsl  hei-.  'IMial  lace  wore  a  (iniet 
smile,  but  ^farya  Diniti-ievna's  tears  wci-c  flow- 
ing again. 

And  Lavretzkv  went  lK)nie,  loeked  hiiiisell'  \\\) 
in  his  valet's  room,  flung  liiniself  on  the  di\aii 
and  lay  there  until  the  nKJiiiing. 


281 


XLIV 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  The  chiming  of  the 
hells  for  the  early  Litiu-oy  did  not  awaken  La- 
^•retzky — he  had  not  closed  an  eye  all  night  long 
— hut  it  did  remind  him  of  another  Sunday,  when, 
at  the  wish  of  I^iza,  he  had  gone  to  church.  He 
hastily  rose;  a  certain  secret  yoice  told  him  that 
he  would  see  her  there  again  to-day.  He  noise- 
lessly quitted  the  house,  ordered  Varvara  Pav- 
lovna  to  be  informed  that  he  ^^ould  return  to  din- 
ner, and  with  great  strides  wended  his  way 
thither,  whither  the  monotonously-mournful 
chiming  summoned  him.  He  arriyed  early:  there 
was  hardly  any  one  in  the  church;  a  chanter  in 
the  choir  was  reading  the  Hours;  his  yoice,  occa- 
sionally broken  by  a  cough,  boomed  on  in  meas- 
ured cadence,  now  rising,  now  falling.  Layret- 
zky  took  up  his  stand  not  far  from  the  entrance. 
The  prayerfully  inclined  arriyed  one  by  one, 
paused,  crossed  themselyes,  bowed  on  all  sides  ;^ 
their  footsteps  resounded  in  the  emptiness  and 
silence,  distinctly  re-echoing  from  tlie  arches 
oxerhead.  A  decrepit  little  old  woman,  in  an 
ancient  hooded  cloak,  knelt  down  beside  Layret- 

'  That  IS — tliey  fipriirativcly  liegged  tlie  pardon  of  all  whom  they 
might  have  offended,  hefore  entering  on  the  Church  service.  The 
oflBciating  priest  does  the  same. — Translator. 

282 


A  N01U.KMAA  S    XKST 

zky,  and  began  to  pray  assiduously;  lur  ytllow, 
toothless,  wrinkled  face  expressed  intense  emo- 
tion; her  red  eyes  gazed  fixedly  upWMnI  at  the 
holy  pictnre  on  tlie  ikoiiostasis:  Ik  r  hony  hand 
kept  incessantly  eniei-giiig  jVom  iii„|,i-  |„  r  doak, 
and  slowly  hut  vigorously  iiindc  a  grial,  sweep- 
ing sign  of  the  cross.  A  |)easaiil.  with  a  thick 
beard  and  a  surlv  face,  tousled  and  dislicNcllrd. 
entered  tlie  church,  went  do^^Il  at  once  on  both 
knees,  and  immediately  set  to  ciossing  iiiinself, 
hastily  flinging  back  his  head  and  shaking  it  after 
every  prostration.  Such  bitter  woe  was  depicted 
on  his  countenance,  and  in  all  his  niovi-ments, 
that  Lavretzky  made  u})  his  mind  to  aj)|)roach 
and  ask  him  what  was  the  matter.  'I'he  |)casant 
started  back  timidly  and  roughly,  and  looked  at 
him.  ..."  My  son  is  dead," — he  said,  in  hasty 
accents — and  again  began  to  prostrate  himself 
to  the  floor.  "  What  can  take  the  place,  i'or  them, 
of  the  consolation  of  the  chureli?" — Lavretzky 
thought, — and  tried  to  pray  himself:  but  his  heart 
had  grown  heavy  and  hard,  and  his  thoughts  were 
faraway.  He  was  still  expecting  Liza  but  Liza 
did  not  come.  The  church  l)egan  to  fill  \\itli 
people;  still  she  did  not  come.  The  Liturgy  be- 
gan, the  deacon  had  already  read  the  (iospel.  the 
bell   had    pealed    for   the   hymn    "Worthy";' 

'"Worthy  and  rijrlit  is  it.  to  Im".  vlivwn  to  the  FatluT,  niid  to  the 
Son,  and  to  tht-  Holy  Spirit,  to  fho  rrinity,  consiilistnnliiil  and  in- 
divisible "—at  a  very  solemn  point,  and  (piitc  late  in  tlu-  l.itnrgj-.  - 
Translator. 

28;3 


A  XOBLEMAX'S  NEST 

Lavretzky  moved  a  little, — and  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  I^iza.  She  had  arrived  before  him,  but 
he  had  not  descried  her;  crowded  into  the  space 
between  the  ^all  and  the  choir,  she  neither 
glanced  around  noi-  moved.  Lavretzky  did  not 
take  his  eyes  from  her  until  the  very  end  of  the 
Liturgy:  he  was  bidding  her  farewell.  The  con- 
gregation began  to  disperse,  but  she  still  stood 
on ;  she  seemed  to  be  awaiting  Lavretzky's  de- 
parture. At  last,  she  crossed  herself  for  the  last 
time,  and  went  away,  without  looking  round ;  she 
had  only  a  maid  w^ith  her.  Lavretzky  followed 
her  out  of  the  chiu'ch,  and  overtook  her  in  the 
street;  she  was  walking  very  rapidly,  with  her 
head  bowed  and  her  veil  lowered  over  her  face. 

"  Good  morning,  Lizaveta  INIikhailovna,"^ — 
said  he,  loudly,  with  forced  ease: — "may  I  ac- 
company^ you?  " 

She  said  nothing ;  he  walked  along  by  her  side. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  M'ith  me?  " — he  asked  her, 
lowering  his  voice. — "  You  have  heard  what  took 
place  last  night?  " 

"  Yes,  yes," — she  said  in  a  whisper: — "  you 
did  well."* 

And  she  walked  on  faster  than  ever. 

"  You  are  satisfied?  " 

Liza  only  nodded  her  head. 

"  Feodor  Ivanitch," — she  began,  in  a  com- 
posed, but  weak  voice: — "  I  have  wanted  to  ask 
you :  do  not  come  to  our  liouse  again ;  go  away  as 

284, 


A  NOHlJvMAX  S   \KST 

speedily  as  possible;  we  can  see  each  nlhcr  later 
on, — sometime,  a  year  hence,  lint  now,  do  this 
forme;  comply  with  my  recjnest,  for  (;()(i'.s  sake." 

"I  am  ready  to  obey  you  in  :ill  things,  Li/,a- 
veta  jNlikhadox  na;  l)nl  is  it  jxjssihle  that  we  arc 
to  part  thns:'  will  you  not  say  a  single  word  lo 
me?  " 

"  Fecklor  Ivaniteh,  here  yon  arc  jiow .  walkin^r 
by  my  side.  But  yon  arc  already  lar  away  t'loin 
me.     And  not  yon  alone,  but  also  .  .  .  ." 

"Finish,  I  entreat  yon!" — exclaimed  Lavret- 
zky: — "  what  is  it  that  von  mean  to  sav;"  " 

You  will  hear,  perhai)s  .  .  .  .  but  wliatever 
happens,  forget  .  .  .  no.  do  not  f'oi-gct  me,  re- 
member me." 

"  I  forget  yon!  .  .  .  ." 

"Enough;  farewell.     Do  not  j'ollow  mc." 

"  Liza  .   .   ."■ — Lavretzky   was  beginning. 

"  Farewell,  farewell!  " — she  repeated,  dropped 
her  veil  still  lower,  and  advanced  almost  at  a  run. 

Lavretzky  gazed  after  her.  and  (lr()pj)ing  hi?^ 
head,  went  back  down  the  street.  lie  hit  upon 
Lemm,  who  was  also  walking  along,  \\  illi  bis  hat 
pulled  down  on  his  no.se,  and  staring  at  tln' 
ground  under  bis  feet. 

Tliey  stared  al  each  otlu  r  in  silence. 

"  Well,  what  have  vou  to  sav:*  "- — said  La\  I'ct- 
zky  at  last. 

"  What  have  1  to  say;*  " — returned  1a nun  sui- 
lilv: — "  I   have  notliing  to  .sav.      Fvervtiiing  is 

28.5 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

dead,  and  we  are  dead.     (Alles  ist  todt  und  wir 
sind  todt. )    You  are  going  to  the  right,  I  think?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  go  to  the  left.     Good-bye." 

On  the  following  morning,  Feodor  Ivanitch 
and  his  wife  set  out  for  Lavriki.  She  drove  in 
front,  in  the  carriage,  with  Ada  and  Justine;  he 
came  behind,  in  his  tarantas.  The  pretty  little 
girl  never  quitted  the  carriage-window  during  the 
whole  journey;  she  was  surprised  at  everything: 
at  the  peasants,  the  peasant  women,  the  wells,  the 
shaft-arches,  the  carriage-bells,  at  the  multitude 
of  jackdaws;  Justine  shared  her  surprise.  Var- 
vara  Pavlovna  laughed  at  their  comments  and 
exclamations.  .  .  She  was  in  high  spirits;  before 
their  departure  from  the  town  of  O  *  *  *  she 
had  had  an  explanation  with  her  husband. 

"  I  understand  your  position," — she  had  said 
to  him, — and  he,  from  the  expression  of  her 
clever  eves,  was  able  to  conclude  that  she  did 
fully  understand  his  position, — "  but  you  must 
do  me  the  justice,  at  least,  to  say  that  I  am  easy 
to  live  with ;  I  shall  not  obtrude  myself  upon  you, 
embarrass  you ;  I  wanted  to  assure  Ada's  future. 
I  need  nothing  further." 

"  Yes,  and  you  have  attained  your  object," — 
said  Feodor  Ivanitch. 

"  ]My  sole  idea  now  is  to  shut  myself  up  in  the 
wilds;  I  shall  forever  remember  your  good  deed 
in  my  prayers.  .  .  ." 

286 


A  NORLKMAX  S   XKST 

"  Faugh!  .  .  .  onoufTli  <>f"  that,"  -he  interrupted 
her. 

"  And  1  shall  know  how  to  iLspccl  your  inde- 
pendence, and  your  repose," — she  completed  her 
phrase,  which  she  had  pre})ared  in  advance. 

Lavretzky  had  made  her  a  low  l)ow.  N'arvarti 
Pavlovna  understood  that  hei-  luishMiid.  in  his 
sold,  was  grateful  to  her. 

On  the  second  day,  toward  the  evening,  they 
reached  liavriki;  a  week  later,  Lavretzky  set  oft' 
for  INIoscow,  leaving  his  wife  five  thousand  riihles 
for  her  expenses — and  tlie  day  after  Lavretzky's 
departure,  Panshin,  whom  Varvara  Pavlovna 
had  hegged  not  to  forget  her  in  her  isolation, 
made  his  appearance.  She  gave  him  the  w;irni- 
est  sort  of  a  welcome,  and  until  late  into  the  night 
the  loftv  rooms  of  the  house  and  the  verv  t»arden 
rang  with  the  sounds  of  music,  singing,  and  merry 
French  speeches.  Panshin  visited  Varvjira  Pav- 
lovna for  three  days;  when  he  took  leave  of  her, 
and  Avarmly  pressed  her  heautiful  hands,  he 
promised  to  return  very  soon — and  he  kej)t  his 
promise. 


287 


XLV 

Liza  had  a  separate  little  room,  on  the  second 
story  of  her  mother's  house,  small,  clean,  bright, 
witli  a  white  bed,  pots  of  flowers  in  the  corners 
and  in  front  of  the  holy  pictures,  with  a  tiny  writ- 
ing-table, a  case  of  books,  and  a  crucifix  on  the 
wall.  This  little  chamber  was  called  the  nursery; 
Liza  had  been  born  in  it.  On  returning  to  it 
from  church,  where  she  had  seen  Lavretzky,  she 
put  everything  in  order,  even  more  carefully 
than  usual,  wiped  the  dust  off  everything,  looked 
over  and  tied  up  with  ribbons  her  note-books  and 
the  letters  of  her  friends,  locked  all  the  drawers, 
watered  the  plants,  and  touched  every  flower  with 
her  hand.  She  did  all  this  without  haste,  without 
noise,  with  a  certain  touched  and  tranquil  solici- 
tude on  her  face.  She  halted,  at  last,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  slowly  looked  around  her,  and 
stepping  up  to  the  table  over  which  hung  the 
crucifix,  she  knelt  down,  laid  her  head  on  her 
clasped  hands,  and  remained  motionless. 

JNIarfa  Timofeevna  entered,  and  found  her  in 
this  position.  Liza  did  not  notice  her  entrance. 
The  old  woman  went  outside  the  'door,  on  tiptoe, 
and   gave   vent   to   several   loud   coughs.      Liza 

288 


A  NOHLKMAX'S   XKST 

rose  quickly  to  her  red,  and  ui|H(l  lu  r  eyes,  in 
which  glittered  clear  tears  whicli  had  11..I  Vallen. 

"  I  see  that  thou  hast  heen  arranging-  lliy  httli- 
cell  again,"'- -said  Marl'a  TimolV-ev  !ia.  and  hdit 
low  over  a  pot  containing  a  young  rosc-husli: 
"what  a  splendid  i)errumc  il  has!" 

Liza  gazed  thoughtfully  at  lu  r  aunt. 

"  What  a  word  you  have  uttered!  " — slit-  whis- 
pered. 

"What  sort  of  a  word,  what  word  f  "  inter- 
posed the  old  woman,  vivaciously: — "  what  dost 
thou  mean? — This  is  dreadful," — she  said,  sud- 
denly tearing  off  her  cap,  and  seating  iierself  on 
Liza's  bed: — "this  is  beyond  inv  streniith!  to- 
day  is  the  fourth  day  that  1  seem  to  he  seithing 
in  a  kettle;  I  can  no  longer  pretend  that  I  notice 
nothing, — I  cannot  see  thee  growing  i)ale,  wither- 
ing away,  weeping, — I  cannot,  1  cannot!" 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  aunty  ^  " 
— said  Liza: — "I  am  all  right.  .  .  .'" 

"  All  right?" — exclaimed  Marfa  Timofeevna: 
— "  tell  that  to  others,  but  not  to  me!  All  right! 
But  who  was  it  that  was  on  her  knees  just  now' 
whose  eyelashes  are  still  wet  ^\ith  tears f  All 
right!  Why,  look  at  thyself,  what  hast  th<»u  done 
to  thy  face,  what  has  l)eeome  of  thiiic  eves? — 
All  right!    As  though  I  did  not  know  all!" 

"It  will  ])ass  off,  aunty;  give  uw  tinic." 

"  It  will  pass  off,  hut  wIrii.''  ()  Lord  (iod.  my 
Master!  is  it  possible   that   thou   didst    lo\c   liim 

•281) 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

so?  whv,  he  is  an  old  man,  I^izotchka.  Well,  I 
do  not  dispute  that  he  is  a  good  man,  he  does  not 
bite;  but  M'liat  does  that  signify?  we  are  all  good 
people:  the  world  is  large,  there  will  always  be 
plenty  of  that  sort." 

"  I  tell  5^ou,  that  it  will  all  pass  off,  it  is  all 
over  already." 

"  Listen,  Lizotchka,  to  what  I  have  to  say 
to  thee," — said  ]Marfa  Timofeevna,  suddenly, 
making  Liza  sit  down  beside  her  on  the  bed,  and 
adjusting  now  her  hair,  now  her  kerchief. — "  It 
only  seems  to  you,  while  it  is  fresh,  that  your 
grief  is  beyond  remedy.  Ekh,  my  darling, 
for  death  alone  there  is  no  remedj^!  Only  say  to 
thyself :  '  I  won't  ffive  in — so  there  now ! ' 
and  afterward  thou  wilt  be  amazed  thyself — how 
soon,  how  well,  it  will  pass  off.  Only  have 
patience." 

"  Aunty," — replied  Liza: — "  it  is  already  past, 
all  is  over  already." 

"  Past — over — forsooth!  Why,  even  thy  little 
nose  has  grown  pointed,  and  thou  sayest :  '  It  is 
over — it  is  over! 

"  Yes,  it  is  over,  aunty,  if  you  will  only  help 
me," — cried  Liza,  with  sudden  animation,  and 
tln-ew  herself  on  Marfa  Timofeevna's  neck. — 
"  Dear  aunty,  be  my  friend,  help  me;  do  not  be 
angry,  understand  me." 

"  Why,  what  is  this,  what  is  this,  my  mother? 
Don't  frighten  me,  please;  I  shall  scream  in  an- 

290 


A  NOBLKMAX  S   XKST 

other  minute;  don't  look  at  nie  like  that:  tell  nir 
quickly  what  thou  meanest?" 

"I  ...  I  want "  Liza  hid  h(  r  faee  in 

Marfa  Timofeevna\s  hosom.  ..."  I  want  to  in- 
ter a  convent," — she  said,  in  a  (hill  torn-. 

The  old  woman  fairly  leaped  on  tlie  hed. 

"Cross  thyself,  my  motlier,  Lizotehka;  conic 
to  thy  senses:  God  he  with  thee,  wliat  dost  thou 
mean?" — she  stammered  at  last:  "  lit  down,  my 
darling,  sleep  a  little:  this  comes  from  lack  of 
sleep,  my  dear." 

Liza  raised  her  head,  her  cheeks  were  hurning. 

"  No,  aunty," — she  articulated,  "  do  not  speak 
like  that.  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  I  have 
prayed,  I  have  asked  counsel  of  God;  all  is 
ended,  my  life  with  }''ou  is  ended.  Sucli  a  lesson 
is  not  in  vain;  and  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
thought  of  this.  Happiness  was  not  suited  to 
me;  even  when  I  cherished  hopes  of  happiness, 
my  heart  was  always  heavy.  I  know  everytliing, 
my  own  sins  and  the  sins  of  others,  and  how  papa 
acquired  his  wealth ;  I  know  everything.  All  that 
must  be  atoned  for  by  prayer — -atoned  I'or  ])y 
prayer.  I  am  sorry  for  all  of  you — I  am  sorry 
for  mamma,  for  Lyenotclika;  but  there  is  no  help 
for  it;  I  feel  that  I  cannot  live  here;  I  have  al- 
ready taken  leave  of  everything,  I  have  made  my 
reverence  to  everytliin.g  in  tlie  house  for  the  last 
time;  something  is  calling  me  hence;  I  am  weary; 
I  want  to  shut  myself  up  forever.     Do  not  hold 

291 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

me  back,  do  not  dissuade  me;  help  me,  or  I  will 
go  away  alone." 

]Marfa  Timofeevna  listened  in  terror  to  her 
niece. 

"  She  is  ill,  she  is  raving," — she  thought: — "  I 
must  send  for  a  doctor;  but  for  which?  Gedeo- 
novsky  was  praising  some  one  the  other  day; 
he  's  always  lying, — but,  perhaps,  he  told  the 
trutli  that  time."  But  when  she  became  con- 
vinced that  Liza  was  not  ill,  and  was  not  raving, 
when  to  all  her  objections  Liza  steadfastly  made 
one  and  the  same  reply,  ^Nlarfa  Timofeevna  be- 
came seriously  frightened  and  grieved. — "  But 
thou  dost  not  know,  my  darling," — she  began  to 
try  to  prevail  upon  her; — "what  sort  of  a  life 
thev  lead  in  convents!  Why,  my  own  one,  they 
will  feed  thee  with  green  hemp-oil ;  they  will  put 
on  thee  coarse,  awfully  coarse  linen;  they  will 
make  thee  go  about  cold;  thou  canst  not  endure 
all  that,  Lizotchka.  All  that  is  the  traces  of  Aga- 
f ya  in  thee ;  it  was  she  who  led  thee  astray.  Why, 
she  began  by  living  her  life,  living  a  gay  life;  do 
thou  live  thy  life  also.  Let  me,  at  least,  die  in 
peace,  and  then  do  what  thou  wilt.  And  who 
ever  heard  of  any  one  going  into  a  convent,  all 
on  account  of  such  a  goat's  beard — the  Lord  for- 
give me! — on  account  of  a  man?  Come,  if  thy 
lieart  is  so  heavy,  go  away  on  a  journey,  pray  to 
a  saint,  have  a  prayer-service  said,  but  don't  put 

292 


A  NOHLKMAX  S    XKST 

the  black  cowl  on  lliy  lund,  iii\  dt  ar  little  rallicr, 
my  dear  little  niothei- " 

And  iMarf'a  TiinolVrvnn  ))c^an  lo  wccj)  l»il- 
terly. 

Liza  comforted  Ik  r,  w  ijxd  :i\\;ty  Ik  r  tears,  hut 
remained  inflexible.  In  Ikt  despair.  M.irfa 
Timofeevna  tried  lo  risorl  to  liiit.its:  sIk  wnuld 
tell  Tiiza's  mother  e\  ci-ylliin^^  :  i)iil  (  \(  n  that  wa.s 
of  no  avail.  Only  as  a  concession  Id  tin  old 
woman's  urgent  entreaties,  did  Li/a  coiisi  iit  tn 
defer  the  fultilnienl  of  lier  intention  loi-  six 
months;  in  return,  Miirfa  Timofeex  na  was  cntii- 
pelled  to  give  her  her  word  that  she  would  IkIj) 
her,  and  obtain  the  permission  of  Marya  Diiii- 
trievna  if,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  siie  had  not 
changed  her  mind. 

AVitli  the  advent  ol"  the  first  cold  wcatiier, 
Varvara  Pavlovna,  desi)ile  her  i)romise  to  shut 
herself  up  in  the  depths  of  the  country,  after  j)ro- 
vidinff  herself  with  monev,  removed  to  IVtcrs- 
burg,  where  she  hired  a  modest  hut  |)i-(,tty  aj)ait- 
ment,  which  had  l)een  fouiul  i'or  Ik  i-  hy  ranshiii. 
who  had  quitted  the  (iovernjnent  of  ()  *  *  *  he- 
fore  her.  During  the  latter  pai't  of  his  so')ouiii  in 
O  *  *  *  he  had  completely  fallen  out  of  fa\<>ur 
with  iNIarya  Dnn'trievna:  he  had  suddeidy  ceased 
to  call  upon  her  and  liardly  ever  (piitted  La\  riki. 
Varvara   Pavlovna   had   enslaved   him,   precisely 

293 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

that, — enslaved  him;  no  other  word  will  express 
her  unlimited,  irrevocable,  irresponsible  power 
over  him. 

Lavretzky  passed  the  winter  in  ^Moscow,  but 
in  the  spring  of  the  following  year  the  news 
readied  liim  that  Liza  had  entered  the  B  *  *  * 
convent,  in  one  of  the  most  remote  corners  of 
Kussia. 


294 


EPILOCiUK 

EIGHT  years  liave  passed.  Sprinn-  luis  coim 
again.  .  .  lint  first,  let  us  say  a  IVu  \v(»i(ls 
about  the  fate  of  Miklialeviteh,  IMiisliin.  .Mi.n, 
Lavretzky — and  take  our  leave  of  them.  Mi- 
khalevitch,  after  long-  peregrinations,  has  tiiialiy 
hit  upon  his  real  voeation:  he  has  obtained  thr 
post  of  head  inspeetoi-  in  a  govennnent  insti- 
tution. He  is  very  well  satisfied  with  his  lot,  and 
his  pupils  "adore"  him,  although  they  mimic 
him.  Panshin  has  advanced  greatly  in  lank,  and 
already  has  a  directorship  in  view;  he  walks  with 
his  back  somewhat  bent:  it  must  be  the  cross  of 
the  Order  of  Vladimir,  which  has  been  conferred 
upon  him,  that  drags  him  forward.  The  oflicial 
in  him  has,  decidedly,  carried  the  day  omi-  the 
artist;  his  still  youthful  face  has  tuiiud  (|nite 
yellow,  his  hair  has  grown  thin,  and  lu-  no  longer 
sings  or  draws,  but  secretly  oecuj)ie.s  himstif 
with  literature:  he  has  written  a  little  coniedy.  in 
the  natvn-e  of  "  a  proverb," — and,  as  every  one 
who  writes  nowadays  "  show  s  uj)  "  .some  one  or 
something,  he  has  shown  up  in  it  a  co(|uette.  and 
he  reads  it  surreptitiously  to  two  oi-  three  ladies 
who  are  favourably  disj)ose(l   towai'd  him.      lint 

2\)5 


A  XOBLEMAX  S  XEST 

he  has  not  married,  altlioiigh  many  fine  oppor- 
tunities of  so  doing  have  presented  themselves: 
for  this  Varvara  Pavlovna  is  responsible.  As 
for  her,  she  lives  uninterruptedly  in  Paris,  as  of 
yore :  Feodor  I vanitch  has  "iven  her  a  bill  of  ex- 
change  on  himself,  and  bought  himself  free 
from  her, — from  the  possibility  of  a  second,  un- 
expected invasion.  She  has  grown  old  and  fat, 
but  it  is  still  pretty  and  elegant.  Every  person 
has  his  own  ideal:  Varvara  Pavlovna  has  found 
hers — in  the  dramatic  productions  of  Dumas 
fils.  She  assiduously  frequents  the  theatre  where 
consumptive  and  sentimental  ladies  of  the  frail 
class  are  put  on  the  stage;  to  be  JMme.  Doche 
seems  to  her  the  very  apex  of  human  felicity ;  one 
day,  she  declared  that  she  desired  no  better  lot  for 
her  daughter.  It  is  to  be  ho])ed  that  fate  will 
deliver  Mademoiselle  Ada  from  such  felicity: 
from  a  rosy,  plump  child,  she  has  turned  into  a 
weak-chested,  pale-faced  young  girl;  her  nerves 
are  already  deranged.  Tlie  mnnber  of  Varvara 
Pavlovna's  admirers  has  decreased ;  but  they  have 
not  transferred  their  allegiance:  she  will,  in  all 
probability,  retain  several  of  them  to  the  end  of 
her  life.  The  most  ardent  of  them,  of  late,  has 
been  a  certain  Zakurdalo-SkubyrnikofF,  one  of 
the  retired  dandies  of  the  Cruards,  a  man  of  eight 
and  thirty,  of  remarkably  robust  build.  The 
Frenchmen  who  frequent  INIme.  Lavretzkj^'s 
salon  call  him  "  le  gros  taureau  de  VUhrdine  "  ; 

296 


A  XOHLKMAX  S   XKST 

Varvara  Pavlovna  never  iiiviUs  liim  lo  h,  i  i.-isli- 
ionable  evening-  gatlicrin^s,  hul  Ik  (tijoys  licr 
favour  in  the  fullesl  measure. 

So  ...  .  eiglit  years  Ijave  passed.  Ag.iin  llic 
sky  is  breathing  forth  the  heaniiug  liappimss  ol" 
spring;  again  it  is  suiihng  ui)()n  the  earth  and 
upon  men;  again,  beneath  its  eares.s,  everything 
has  burst  into  blossom,  into  love  and  song.  'I'he 
town  of  O  *  *  *  has  undergone  very  little-  change 
in  the  course  of  those  eight  years;  hut  .M:iiva 
Dmitrievna's  house  seems  to  liave  grown  Nounu : 
its  recently  painted  walls  shine  as  in  weleotni-. 
and  the  panes  of  the  open  windows  aic  erini- 
soning  and  glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  setting 
Sim.  Through  these  windows,  out  upon  the 
street,  are  wafted  the  sounds  of  ringing  young 
voices,  of  incessant  laughter;  the  whole  Iioiis( 
seems  bubbling  with  lii'e,  and  o\  ei-llow  ing  the 
brim  with  merriment.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
herself  has  long  since  gone  to  her  grave:  Mjirya 
Dmitrievna  died  two  years  after  Liza's  profes- 
sion as  a  nun;  and  Marfa  Timoieevna  did  not 
long  survive  her  neice;  they  rest  side  hv  side- 
in  the  town  cemetery.  Xastasva  Karpovna,  also, 
is  dead;  the  faithful  old  woman  went,  cMry 
week,  for  the  space  of  several  yeais.  to  pray  o\  er 
the  ashes  of  her  friend.  .  .  Her  time  came,  and 
her  bones  also  were  laid  in  the  (lam|)  earth.  Hut 
Marva  Dmitrievna's  house  has  not  passed  into 
the  hanels  e)f  strangers,  has  not  le  It  lui-  fainily  :  the- 

•ii)7 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

nest  lias  not  been  destroyed:  Lyenotchka,who  has 
become  a  stately,  beautiful  young  girl,  and  her 
betrothed,  a  fair-haired  officer  of  hussars;  ^la- 
rya  Dmitrievna's  son,  who  has  just  been  married 
in  Petersburg,  and  has  come  with  his  young  wife 
to  spend  the  spring  in  O  *  *  *  ;  his  wife's  sister,  an 
Institute-girl  of  sixteen,  with  brilliantly  scarlet 
cheeks  and  clear  eyes ;  Schiirotchka,  who  has  also 
grown  up  and  become  pretty — these  are  the 
young  folks  who  are  making  the  walls  of  the 
Kalitin  house  re-echo  with  laughter  and  chatter. 
Everything  about  it  has  been  changed,  everything 
has  been  brought  into  accord  with  the  new  in- 
habitants. Beardless  young  house-servants,  who 
grin  and  jest,  have  taken  the  places  of  the  former 
sedate  old  servitors ;  where  overgrown  Roska  was 
wont  to  stroll,  two  setters  are  chasing  madly 
about,  and  leaping  over  the  divans ;  the  stable  has 
been  filled  with  clean-limbed  amblers,  high- 
spirited  shaft-horses,  fiery  trace-horses  ^  with 
braided  manes,  and  riding-horses  from  the  Don ; 
the  hours  for  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  have 
become  mixed  up  and  confused ;  according  to  the 
expression  of  the  neighbours,  "  an  unprecedented 
state  of  affairs  "  has  been  established. 

On  the  evening  of  which  we  are  speaking,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Kalitin  house  (the  oldest  of 
them,  Lyenotchka's  betrothed,  was  only  four  and 

'The  trotter  as  shaft-horse,  and  the  galloping  side-horses 
of  a  troika. — Translatok. 

298 


A  NOHLKMAX  S    NKST 

twenty)  were  engaged  in  a  lai-  Iroin  cnnijilicatcd. 
but,  judging  from  their  vigorous  laughhr,  a 
very  amusing  game:  tliey  were  ninning  llnougli 
the  rooms,  and  eatehing  eaeh  oUu  r:  the  dogs,  also, 
were  running  and  harking,  and  the  canaries  which 
hung  in  eages  in  IVonl  of  the  windows  vied  with 
each  other  in  singing  at  tlie  t()|)s  of  their  voices, 
increasing  the  uproai-  ol"  ringing  xolleys  of 
noise  with  their  furious  ehirj)ing.  While  this 
deafening  diversion  was  at  its  very  heiglit,  a 
nmd-stained  tarantiis  drove  n|)  to  the  gate,  and 
a  man  of  forty-five,  chid  in  lra\elhng  garh,  (K- 
scended  from  it,  and  stopped  short  in  ama/ement. 
He  stood  motionless  for  some  time,  s\\(.j)l  an  at- 
tentive glance  over  tlie  house,  passed  through  tlie 
gate  into  the  yard,  and  slowly  ascended  the  steps. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  anteroom  to  receive  him; 
but  the  door  of  the  "hall"  Hew  wide  ()i)en; 
through  it,  all  flushed,  bounced  Schiirotclika,  and 
instantly,  in  pursuit  of  her,  with  rifiging  laughter, 
rushed  the  whole  youthful  band.  She  came  to  a 
sudden  halt  and  fell  silent  at  tiie  sight  of  tlie 
stranger;  but  the  clear  eyes  fa.stened  u\h)i\  liim 
were  as  caressing  as  ever,  the  fresh  faces  did  not 
cease  to  smile.  ISIarya  Dnn'trievna's  .son  .stepped 
up  to  the  visitor,  and  courteously  asked  him  wliat 
he  \vished. 

"  I  am  Lavretzky," — .said  the  \  isitor. 

A  vigorous  shout  rang  out   in   response     and 
not  because  all  the.se  young  people  were  so  e\- 

299 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

tremely  delighted  at  the  arrival  of  the  distant,  al- 
most forgotten  relative,  hut  simph^  because  they 
were  ready  to  make  an  uproar  and  rejoice  on 
every  convenient  opportunity.  They  immediately 
surrounded  Lavretzky:  Lyenotchka,  in  the  qual- 
ity of  an  old  acquaintance,  was  the  first  to  intro- 
duce herself,  and  to  assure  him  that,  in  another 
moment,  she  certainly  would  have  recognised 
him,  and  then  she  j^i'esented  all  the  rest  of  the 
company,  calling  each  one  of  them,  including  her 
betrothed,  by  his  pet  name.  The  whole  throng 
moved  through  the  dining-room  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  hangings  in  both  rooms  were  differ- 
ent, but  the  furniture  remained  the  same; 
Lavretzky  recognised  the  piano;  even  the  same 
embroidery-frame  was  standing  in  the  window, 
in  the  same  position — and  almost  with  the  same 
unfinished  bit  of  embroidery  as  eight  years  pre- 
viously. They  made  him  sit  down  in  a  comfort- 
able easy-chair;  all  seated  themselves  decorously 
around  him.  Questions,  exclamations,  stories 
showered  down  without  cessation. 

"  But  it  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  seen  you," 
— remarked  Lyenotchka,  ingenuously: — "and 
we  have  not  seen  Varvara  Pavlo\Tia  either." 

"  I  should  think  so!  " — interposed  her  brother, 
hurriedly.  "  I  carried  thee  off  to  Petersburg, 
but  Feodor  Ivanitch  lived  in  the  country  all  the 
time." 

"  Yes,  and  manmia  has  died  since,  you  Imow." 

300 


A  XOHIJvMAX  s  .\i<:s'r 

"And      Marfa      Timofeevna,"— sai(I      Scln'i 
rotchka. 

"And  Nastiisya  Karpovna," — rcjoiiKd  \ac- 
notchka. — "  And  JSI'sieu  Lenini " 

"What?  And  is  Lemm  dead  also^"-  askt-d 
Tiavretzky. 

"Yes,"- — replied  young  Kalilin:  "lie  went 
away  from  here  to  Odessa — they  say  that  some 
one  decoyed  him  thither;  and  there  he  died." 

"  You  do  not  know — whether  he  left  any  music 
hehind  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know, — it  is  hardly  probable." 

All  fell  silent,  and  exchanged  glances.  A 
cloud  of  sadness  had  descended  u])on  all  tlie 
young  faces. 

"  And  Matroska  is  alive," — suddenly  remarked 
Lyenotchka. 

"  And  Gedeonovsky  is  alive," — added  her 
brother. 

At  the  name  of  Gedeonovsky  a  vigorous  peal 
of  laughter  rang  out  in  unison. 

"  Yes,  he  is  alive,  and  lies  just  as  he  always 
did," — w^ent  on  Marya  Dmitrievna's  son: — 
"  and  just  imagine,  that  naughty  child  there  " 
(and  he  pointed  at  his  wife's  sister,  tlie  In- 
stitute-girl) "  put  pepper  in  his  snuff-])ox  yes- 
terday." 

"  How  he  did  sneeze!  "  exclaimed  Lyenotchka : 
— and  again  a  peal  of  irrepressible  laughter  rang 
out. 


A  XOBLEMAX  S   NEST 

"  We  received  news  of  Liza  recently,"— said 
young  Kalitin, — and  again  everything  grew  still 
round  about: — "things  are  well  with  her, — her 
health  is  now  improving  somewhat." 

"  Is  she  still  in  the  same  convent?  " — asked 
I^avretzky,  not  without  an  effort. 

"  Yes,  still  in  the  same  place." 

"  Does  she  write  to  you?  " 

"  Xo,  never;  the  news  reaches  us  through  other 
people." — A  sudden,  profound  silence  ensued. 
"  The  angel  of  silence  has  flown  past,"  all  said  to 
themselves. 

"  Would  not  you  like  to  go  into  the  garden?  " 
— Kalitin  turned  to  Lavretzky: — "it  is  very 
pretty  now,  although  we  have  rather  neglected  it." 

I^avretzky  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  the 
first  thiuQ-  that  struck  his  eves  was  the  bench 
on  which  he  had  once  spent  with  Liza  a  few 
happy  moments,  never  to  be  repeated;  it  had 
grown  black  and  crooked;  but  he  recognised  it, 
and  his  soul  was  seized  by  that  feeling  which  has 
no  peer  in  sweetness  and  in  sorrow, — the  feeling 
of  living  grief  for  vanished  youth,  for  happiness 
which  it  once  possessed.  In  company  with  the 
young  people,  he  strolled  through  the  alleys:  the 
linden-trees  had  not  grown  much  older  and  taller 
during  the  last  eight  years,  but  their  shade  had 
become  more  dense;  on  the  other  hand,  all  the 
shrubs  had  sprung  upward,  the  raspberry-bushes 
had  waxed  strong,  the  hazel  co])se  had  become 

302 


A   XOHLKMAX  S    NKST 

entirely  im])ciR'tral)l(.',  and  (.'vcrvuhirc  Www  was 
an  odour  of  thickets,  forest,  grass,  and  lilacs. 

"What  a  good  place  this  would  Ik-  tn  |)lay 
at  i)uss-in-the-eorner," — suddeidv  crird  Lnc- 
notcldva,  as  they  entered  a  small,  \c  rdant  glade, 
hemmed  in  ])v  hndens: — "  l»v  tlu    wav.  tli(  ic  aic 

•  •  • 

five  of  us." 

"And  hast  tliou  forgotUii  I'eodor  I\  ;iiiitcli '  " 
— her  brother  observed  to  lier.  .  .  "  Or  art  thou 
not  reckoning  in  thyself?  " 

Lyenotchka  blushed  faintlv. 

"But  is  it  possible  that  KccMJor  haiiitcli.  al 
his  age,  can  .  .  ."' — she  began. 

"  Please  play,' — interposed  Lavretzky,  has- 
tily:— "  pay  no  heed  to  me.  It  will  be  all  the 
more  agreeable  to  me  if  I  kncnv  that  1  am  not  rin- 
barrassing  you.  And  there  is  no  need  for  you  to 
bother  about  me;  we  old  fellows  have  occupations 
of  which  you,  as  yet,  know  nothing,  and  which  no 
diversion  can  replace:  memories." 

The  young  people  listened  to  Lavretzky  with 
courteous  and  almost  mocking  respect. — exactly 
as  though  their  teacher  were  reading  them  a  Us- 
son, — and  suddeidy  all  of  them  flew  away  from 
him,  and  ran  over  the  glade:  four  of  tiurn  took 
up  their  stand  neai-  the  trees,  one  stood  in  the 
centre, — and  the  liin  l)cgan. 

But  I.avret/ky  i-eturned  to  the  house.  \v<  iit  into 
the  dining-room,  a|)proached  Die  piano,  and 
touched  one  of  the  keys:  a  laint.  l)nt   |iuic  sound 


A   NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

rang  out,  and  secretly  trembled  in  his  heart:  with 
that  note  began  that  inspired  melody  wherewith, 
long  ago,  on  that  same  blissful  night,  Lemm,  the 
dead  Lemm,  had  led  him  to  such  raptures.  Then 
Lavretzky  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  and  did 
not  emerge  from  it  for  a  long  time :  in  that  room, 
where  he  had  so  often  seen  Liza,  her  image  rose 
up  before  him  more  vividlj^  than  ever;  it  seemed 
to  him,  that  he  felt  around  him  the  traces  of  her 
presence;  but  his  grief  for  her  was  exhausting 
and  not  light:  there  was  in  it  none  of  the  tran- 
quillity which  death  inspires.  Liza  was  still  liv- 
ing somewhere,  dully,  far  away;  he  thought  of 
her  as  among  the  living,  but  did  not  recognise  the 
young  girl  w^hom  he  had  once  loved  in  that  pale 
spectre  swathed  in  the  conventual  garment,  sur- 
rounded by  smoky  clouds  of  incense.  Lavretzky 
would  not  have  recognised  himself,  had  he  been 
able  to  contemplate  himself  as  he  mentall}'  con' 
templated  Liza.  In  the  course  of  those  eight 
years  the  crisis  had,  at  last,  been  effected  in  his 
life ;  that  crisis  which  many  do  not  experience,  but 
without  which  it  is  not  possible  to  remain  an  hon- 
ourable man  to  the  end:  he  had  really  ceased  tc 
think  of  his  own  happiness,  of  selfish  aims.  He 
had  calmed  down,  and — why  should  the  truth  be 
concealed? — he  had  aged,  not  alone  in  face  and 
body,  he  had  aged  in  soul;  to  preserve  the  heart 
youthful  to  old  age,  as  some  say,  is  difficult,  and 
almost  absurd:  he  may  feel  content  who  has  not 

ao4. 


A    XoHlJvMAXS    NKS'I" 

lost  I'aitli  ill  •^(uhI,  stead  last  iK.vs  oT  will.  diMif  loj- 
activity.  .  .  .  Lavirtzky  had  a  li^rhi  to  Iffi  suti.s- 
fied:  he  iiad  Ircouk'  a  irally  line-  aM-ricidtiirist.  In- 
had  really  Icanifd  to  till  the  soil,  .ind  l,c  had 
toiled  not  for  hiinscll'  aloiu-:  in  s<»  far  as  he- 
had  hc-ei)  ahlc,  he  had  freed  fr<»iii  care  and  estah- 
lished  oTi  a  firm  foundation  the  i-xisteiiee  of  his 
serf's. 

Lavret/ky  einerord  from  the  house  into  tin- 
L»arden:  he  seated  himself  on  the  familiar  Ixrieh 
— and  in  that  dear  spot,  in  the  face  of  the  house, 
where  he  had,  on  the  last  oceasion.  stretched  out 
his  hands  in  vain  to  the  i'atal  ciij)  in  which  seetlies 
and  sparkles  the  wine  of  delight, — he,  a  solitary, 
homeless  wanderer,-  to  the  sounds  of  the  merry 
cries  of  the  vounyer  «»eneration  which  had  alreadv 
superseded  hini, — took  a  snr\iy  of  iiis  life.  Ilis 
heart  was  sad,  hut  not  hea\  y  and  not  \ery  sor- 
rowful; he  had  notliin<^'  which  li<  had  lu cd  to 
regret  or  be  ashamed  of.  "  IMay  on.  make  merry, 
grow  on,  young  forces,"  he  thought,  and  there 
was  no  l)itterness  in  his  meditations:  "  life  lies 
before  vou,  and  it  will  he  easier  for  mmi  to  live: 
vou  will  not  he  conipelled.  as  we  ha\r  hetii.  to 
seek  your  road,  to  struggle,  to  fall,  and  to  rise 
to  your  feet  again  amid  the  gloom  ;  we  liave  given 
ourselves  great  trouble,  that  we  might  n-main 
whole, — and  how  many  of  us  liave  failed  in  that! 
— but  you  must  do  deeds,  work,  and  the  blessing 
of  old  fellows  like  mi'  Ix   upon  \«iii.     Hut  all  that 

30.') 


A  NOBLEMAN'S  NEST 

remains  for  me,  after  to-day,  after  these  emo- 
tions, is  to  make  my  final  reverence  to  you,  and, 
although  with  sadness,  yet  without  envy,  without 
any  dark  feelings,  to  say,  in  view  of  the  end,  in 
view  of  God  who  is  awaiting  me:  'Long  live 
solitary  old  age!  Burn  thyself  out,  useless 
life!'" 

Lavretzky  rose  softly,  and  softly  went  away; 
no  one  noticed  him,  no  one  detained  him;  the 
merry  cries  resounded  more  loudly  than  ever  in 
the  garden  behind  the  green,  dense  wall  of  lofty 
lindens.  He  seated  himself  in  his  tarantas,  and 
ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  home,  and  not  to 
press  the  horses  hard. 

"And  the  end ?"  perchance  some  dissatisfied 
reader  will  say.  "  And  what  became  of  Lavret- 
zky? of  Liza?"  But  what  can  one  say  about 
people  who  are  still  alive,  but  who  have  already 
departed  from  the  earthly  arena, — why  revert 
to  them?  They  say  that  Lavretzky  paid  a  visit 
to  that  distant  convent  where  Liza  had  hidden 
herself — and  saw  her.  In  going  from  one  choir 
to  the  other,  she  passed  close  to  him — passed  with 
the  even,  hurriedly-submissive  gait  of  a  nun— 
and  did  not  cast  a  glance  at  him ;  only  the  lashes 
of  the  eye  which  was  turned  toward  him  trembled 
almost  imperceptibly,  and  her  haggard  face  was 
bowed  a  little  lower  than  usual — and  the  fingers 
of  her  clasped  hands,  interlaced  with  her  rosary, 

^06 


A  XOHl.KMAX  S    NKSr 

were  pressed  more  tiglitly  to  one  iiiiotlier.  What 
did  they  both  think, — what  did  tluy  hoth  feel? 
Who  knows?  Who  sliall  sav?  There  are  nio- 
ments  in  life,  there  are  feelings  .  .  .  \vc  can  only 
indicate  them, — and  pass  by. 


307 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


AUG  2  4  '?^(k 

JO*'  '       ^954 
^•^  DEC  2  8  RECD 

.dAN  27195! 

3  0  19e' 


BEffDU). 


^Ee27&6filAR2  01973 


Mr  ' 


m  '^' 


mi 


M 


\'^Bt 


■J\:A 


w 


fK'D  LD-URI.  ' 

m.    ft3-573 
FEB     5 1973 


'"P'?  1  2  1973 

0^* 


Form  L9-25m-9,'47(A5618)444  URt 


S     Mrol973 


THE  T   '^'"  '  '^T 

LOS  AlKKxiuLuL^ 


UC  SOUTHtRN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  1  ACILITV 


AA    000  590  999    9 


L  007  626  669   1 


J. 


